Stormy Dreams
by Klaelman
Summary: You get used to it, really; being reborn isn't so bad in itself. It's where you inevitably end up that gives you the nightmares. A crossover with Dreaming of Sunshine; if you're not of the select few interested in that Naruto fanfic AND a Hunger Games crossover, you probably shouldn't bother.
1. Prologue

Being born into another new world is an interesting experience. The first time it happens, you're confused—which is fine, I suppose, when you're a newborn. The second time, you're a bit incredulous. The third time, the frustration kicks in. Eventually, though, you pretty much come to expect it.

You can take the tract of 'Oh, damn it, not AGAIN,' but that doesn't really make you feel any better. One thing I've learned over however many lifetimes is optimism. It's been a hard learn, but absolutely essential to survive mentally when you're somehow supposed to help fix whatever's wrong in every world you're born into.

If it's a choice between laughing about it or crying, well, you have to laugh or you fall apart. And it takes ten times as long to put yourself back together afterwards, so it's best not to.

I was born Celia Jardine. The first glimpse I got of myself was in a mirror spotted with rust and salt from the nearby ocean; through the grime, I made out a thin face framed with dark auburn hair and bright blue eyes, a slender nose and prominent cheekbones hidden under a layer of baby fat. I'd grown up enough times to be able to tell that I'd be pretty—it might be vane to say, but I was relieved, since it's so much more troublesome growing up the other way. I've done it both ways, and I know my preference, thank you very much.

My first few years were bland and uninteresting. I toddled about, reading the scant books available to me, somewhat relieved that the language common to my new world was English. We lived near the sea, and my people spent the majority of their lives fishing, and because both my parents were fishermen, I saw them only rarely. Instead, I spent my time with a half dozen other children who were cared for by an elderly couple too frail to manage the life at sea.

Heyward and Drianna Sawyer were wizened, permanently tanned and weathered from long lives spent onboard fishing ships in the bright sun. He walked with a limp from an old accident, but still always smiled when whittling toys for the children. Drianna was strict but fair, the disciplinarian of the couple, but she always helped with homework and a smile of approval gained from her was a worthwhile achievement.

The children I grew up with where as put off by me as would be expected; going through the standard rigmarole time after time hadn't improved my ability to deal with children, to my eternal embarrassment. I feel a little guilty that all I knew of them were names—Sandrea, Holly and Helgy (twins), Seamus, Cambria, and Felton—and beyond the requisite mealtime activities, I kept myself apart. That seemed fine for everyone involved, though Drianna would complain about my general reluctance to play with the other children. Heyward seemed to like me well enough, and after catching me several times trying to copy his skill with wood, he taught me how to shape wood with slashes and twists, to carve out symbols and faces and create the figurines he'd sell in town to augment our frugal lifestyles. I was never quite as good as he was, lacking that creative spark, but I was good enough.

And, most importantly, it was a prime opportunity to re-familiarize myself with a blade.

I didn't not see my parents, but being away for weeks at a time and not being given much time between cast-offs meant that when they died at sea in my second year, I wasn't overly distraught. Heyward and Drianna did their best to console me, but to be honest, I considered them more my parents than anyone else. I mourned for the ones who gave birth to me, but I enjoyed my life as it was—swimming in the shallows of the sea outside the Sawyers' cottage, picking shells and shellfish to supplement our diets, climbing cliffs and chasing seagulls on the beach.

I would have enjoyed spending my whole life right there, had the outside world not intruded once I'd passed my fifth birthday and began to understand the true horrors of this world.

I'd never gone more than a couple of miles from the cottage I grew up in, but turning five seemed to be a milestone event of some kind. It wasn't one that anyone seemed to celebrate, but I caught enough looks from Heyward and Drianna to know that there was something solemn about this birthday in this world. I was born in winter, and a few months passed by before the other children and I were bundled up and packed into an old cart and brought to town.

Having grown up in an environment that screamed pre-industrial 19th century, I was shocked—not just surprised, but mouth-agape, stunned to silence _shocked_ —when we turned onto a road and were intercepted by three men wearing white armor from head to foot, carrying _automatic weapons,_ not yards away from a _Humvee_ , who asked us our names and our business. I was so agog that I missed what Heyward said to one of the guards, but not so much that I didn't catch what his muffled voice said back.

"Alright, you lot, get in. The Sixty-First Hunger Games selection will start in less than an hour."

 _Well, SHIT._


	2. Chapter 1

So, to reiterate what's said in the summary, this is a crossover with another fanfic—the fanfic, in question, is Dreaming of Sunshine. DoS is a self-insert fic in the Naruto universe—one of the longest, at over half a million words, and one of those watershed fics that inspires a bunch of people to do their own fic in the same style.

The main character of DoS is a girl by the name of Shikako, and one of those things that we fans of the series like to do is write little ficlets where Shikako is reborn into different universes. THIS IS ONE OF THOSE FICS. So, I repeat to anyone considering reading this: if you're not into DoS, this fic is probably not for you. But if you still want to check it out, then by all means, go ahead! And maybe it'll convince you to give Dreaming of Sunshine a chance, as well.

* * *

I'd read the first book of the Hunger Games and part of the second before my untimely death in my very first life. That was a long, _long_ time ago, but I still remembered the vague overarching plot. After a war, the Capitol had established games where teenagers from the districts would fight to the death, to remind the districts of how pointless it was to resist their authority. It sounds cruel, but reading about it in a book lifetimes ago and seeing it happen in person are incomparable.

The town we entered was huge—almost a city, spread out to cover over a square mile—with docks and warehouses lining all along the coastline. There were canning plants and manufactories dedicated to the fishing industry, and in spite of the near-constant buzz of work and almost overwhelming scent of fish, many of the children seemed half-starved and malnourished. It occurred to me that I could be one of those children, if not for the kindness of Heyward and Drianna. I resolved to do something nice for them as soon as possible.

Many people stood listlessly, apathetically, blank faces and empty eyes ready to watch what they must have watched countless times before as the children were reaped for the next Games. I learned several things that day—District Four, which was apparently where I lived, had had its fair share of Victors in the past; seven stood on the stage, in a line behind a man dressed almost ridiculously in a mauve, tangerine, and aqua suit with some sort of white puffy shirt open to show off his bare tattooed chest.

The man, whose name I learned was Simon Hellepholant, was incredibly cheerful and bombastic. His voice boomed, deep and happy, as he announced, "Welcome, all of you! To the Sixty-First Hunger Games Selection Ceremony!"

He stopped as people applauded. The applause was another shock, because although I had seen the desolate, hopeless faces of the mass of people we'd been standing with, I'd apparently missed the whole crowd in view of the camera who seemed thrilled to begin choosing which child would die. I peeked through the legs of some people standing in front of us, and sure enough, even some of the teenagers were thrilled as well—a handful of buff boys, and a half dozen preening girls, all looking somewhere between sixteen and eighteen years old. The girls were all smiling and waving at one of the Victors on the stage, who must have been someone they knew—or wanted to know.

These teenagers, I would learn, were what many called the Careers. People who, since birth, had been trained in wielding weapons and killing people, in preparation for the Games, to bring glory (and a bit of prosperity) to the District. And far from hating these teenagers, the hundreds standing in the square (who, presumably, would be the pool from which the Tributes would be selected) seemed to smile at them. Some of them seemed openly grateful that these Careers were available to volunteer, which made sense, I guess, if you thought about it. I'd rather send someone willing and able to fight to the death than go myself, in their shoes.

There was some ceremony involved, but in the end, the two younger children whose names were picked were superseded by the volunteering of two Careers, who stepped forward eagerly to ride off to battle and glory and, probably, death.

Well, fine. If that's what they wanted, so be it.

The ceremony ended, and we all left. The other children seemed hyped up from the trip, laughing at the silly Escort and playfully joking about volunteering when they grew up. But I sat next to Heyward in the front seat, holding onto his hand and thinking how horrible it was to send children to die for entertainment. I'm sure he agreed.

The years passed as years do. Drianna and Heyward grew older, and as I did too, I began taking up more and more of the duties of keeping house as they grew more and more feeble. The other children left once they grew older, their families needing them to work on the fishing boats or in factories or whatnot, but for some reason I was left out of that.

I would learn later the heart-wrenching reason why I was left out of the responsibilities of the other children and why the Sawyers were allowed to live alone, outside the tightly-policed villages.

But that would come later. Life went on, uninterrupted save for several required viewings of events related to the Hunger Games, and aside from one Victor from our district by the name of Finnick Odair, the years passed by without much noteworthy. I did spend plenty of time refining my skills with knives, working on my old skills in trapping and tracking, and developing new ones in climbing and swimming as much as possible. Something told me I had to be prepared—maybe a preternatural sense I'd developed somewhere along the way, maybe just an expectation that I'd be in the thick of the story again.

It was shortly after I turned eleven that the inevitable happened. First Drianna passed on—a broken hip that just wouldn't get better—and then Heyward, who one day just didn't wake up.

Having buried friends and family countless times before, you'd think I'd grow numb. But it wasn't that, exactly. They'd lived long lives, given me a good life, even adopted me and given me their name, Celia Sawyer. I mourned for them, but at the same time, I knew they weren't really gone—their souls, spirits, essences, or whatever lived on after your mortal body fails, that continued on, somewhere. They were free from the pain I sometimes saw on their faces, in quiet moments here and there.

But, no matter how much the authorities seemed content to leave us alone, the death of my adoptive parents didn't go unnoticed, and a young girl living on her own in the wilderness is pretty well unacceptable in most societies, even those as twisted as this one. And because I had no family and no prospects to be taken in by one, I was sent to a group home.

Once upon a time, I'd surmised that the people who ran the orphanage where Naruto grew up were decent enough people who simply didn't have enough time for all the children in their care. They did their best, but there's only so much to be done for them when there's so little time to give them the love and affection children crave. It wasn't purposeful neglect, cruelty or hate that made Naruto the hellion he was.

I think if he had grown up in one of these homes, he'd have released the Kyuubi by his second birthday.

The rooms and furniture were run-down and if they'd seen better days, no one alive now could speak of them. When I arrived, holding my meager bundle of possessions I'd been allowed to scavenge (and with a number of knives secreted away where the Peacekeepers wouldn't notice), there were thirty seven other children in what amounted to little more than a barracks. There were bunk beds set up along the walls, built from weather-worn planks that might have been the only recovered evidence of old shipwrecks for all I knew. If you grabbed wrong, you got splinters, and if you couldn't remove them yourself, tough luck. The mattresses were lumpy and smelled faintly of mildew, and the windows were grimy—where they weren't knocked out and replaced haphazardly with more planks. The wind whistled through the cracks in the walls, and the roof leaked, and no one seemed interested in fixing any of these problems.

And then there were the kids. They were, each and every one of them, hollow-eyed and skittish. More than one slunk behind cabinets or under beds when the peacekeepers showed up with me. Many of them looked at me with the dead-eyes of people who've lost all hope. It broke my heart to see so many children, some as young as seven, half-starved and broken, with no hope for any future that didn't end in a quick, painless death.

Then there were the few who had a different look about them. There were a half-dozen boys and girls in one corner, looking a bit more well-fed, who sized me up and whispered to each other as I was escorted down row after row of beds. We passed by the gang as the Peacekeepers escorted me to an office at the far end of the home. One of them looked me up and down like I was something he was considering eating. I met his eyes and very carefully did not waver from his gaze. His eyes narrowed.

That was the one I would have to fight.

The woman inside the office was plain and slightly overweight, with a dismissive air and seemingly no interest in the goings-on of her charges. Her hair was tied back in a bun, her eyes were cold and assessing, and every vibe I got off of her was of someone who saw the home as her meal ticket.

"Sawyer, Celia, age eleven. Sign here and here," the Peacekeeper in charge of my escort said. He held out forms for the caretaker to sign, which she did irritably. The Peacekeepers left without so much as a goodbye, and I was left with one of the more unpleasant women I'd ever had the misfortune of knowing.

She looked me up and down, then snorted and settled back in her creaky desk chair. "M' name's Janny, girl. We got some rules here. The most important is, don't bug me. If I have to get up, I'm going to beat someone to death. I've done it before, but you idiot kids always seem to forget." She bared her teeth—an uneven, jagged farce of a grin. "Second, you take the Tessarae every year. It helps keep everyone warm and fed. You don't, you're out on your ass. You get that?" I nodded, not taking my eyes from hers. "Good. You're here until you're eighteen or you find a man. Get outta here." She turned back to whatever she was working on, and I turned and left her office.

Well. How warm of her.

I shut the door, and standing right in front of me was the boy from before. He stood a head and a half taller than me, probably at least fourteen years old, one of the oldest and definitely largest of the kids at the home. His cheeks were scarred from acne, his eyes were cold and mean, and wiry muscles showed on his arms and legs, along with several scars speaking to the frequency of fights. I recognized several that I'd once had myself from particular weapons.

"Gimme your stuff."

I was a little disappointed. That was the best he had? Then again, when you're so much bigger than your opponents, I guess you don't feel like wasting time with chitchat.

He reached for my things, and I acted. I kicked the side of his knee, kneed him in the gut as he collapsed to the floor, then elbowed him in the head as he was hunched over. He flopped onto his side, dazed and in pain, and I stepped around him as he tried to collect his limited faculties, walking past the stunned groups of children and over to an empty bunk. A girl lay on the top, her blue eyes wide and stunned, her long hair in a tangled blob on her head. I set my possessions on my bed, and met the eyes of the girl who would be my bunkmate.

She startled, but her eyes didn't leave mine, and she gave me a tentative smile. "My name's Annie. What's yours?"

I stared at her for a few seconds before I let a small smile through. "Celia."

Annie's smile brightened considerably, and she asked, "Wanna be friends?"

I laughed. apparently, what I'd been doing wrong all these years in the friends department was not beating people up. Who knew? "Sure."


	3. Chapter 2

Annie Cresta was pretty much in the same boat (so to speak) as the rest of us. Her parents went out on a ship one day and didn't come back. She didn't have any other family, so she was sent to the home. But, unlike the rest of the kids, she somehow managed to retain a sort of cautious cheerfulness. It was hidden deep beneath the surface, but enough whittling away at her barriers (with a bit of whittling on actual wood, as well) and I managed to break through to the clever, capable girl underneath. She was fairly smart, capable of reading and writing and simple math, but her real talents were in street smarts.

I learned from her where in the town to go at what hours to avoid the troublesome riffraff that would accost a young girl on her own. She also showed me the places she went to earn a little spending money to supplement the home's meager food supplies—people who needed letters delivered, laundry done, cleaning and whatnot.

It was obvious why, in spite of the collective total of Tessarae from all the children, there was so little food. Janny, the horrible woman in charge of the home, funneled most of the grain and oil to the local black market, selling it for a respectable amount of money. It was common enough knowledge, but something no one (understandably) wanted to think or talk about, since no one seemed to care anyway. Annie and I weren't the only ones who made money on the side, but all the children, even the bullies, didn't say a word of it in front of Janny. As much as we may not like each other, we all hated Janny.

So when a bad slice of pufferfish put a rather _final_ end to her tenure, no one was overly upset. There were a few calculating looks sent my way from some of the more cunning teenagers, but a flat glare from me was enough to inspire them to find other things to focus on. Concurrent with Janny's unfortunate passing, any power plays or bullying in the home towards Annie and me cut out entirely.

And, of course, no one said anything to the investigating Peacekeepers, who after a cursory investigation, ruled the death accidental. Janny was replaced by an older woman who reminded me a bit of Drianna in how strict she was, but we all started getting plenty to eat, so it worked out well enough.

The next four years passed by fairly peacefully, with occasional exceptions for children entering and leaving the home and one instance where one of us was reaped. He went off to the Capitol, and died fairly quickly. Annie cried, but I was just angry. Arthur Penniwar hadn't been anyone we'd had much interaction with, being several years older than us, but he was someone we'd known, and now he was dead, to appease crowds of people cheering for blood.

But what was most remarkable, to me, during this time, was a change in the Reapings from when I was younger. There used to be a small group of teenagers who'd been training to compete in the Hunger Games, but the more and more Reapings that went by, that number dwindled from more than ten to only a couple, until when I started becoming eligible for Tessarae (and Reapings) there were no volunteers at all. The previous semi-festive relaxed atmosphere had become tense and downcast, with eligible teens casting furtive, worried glances amongst themselves, their parents looking on with pinched faces.

Annie and I made it through for three years before the unthinkable happened, and Simon Hellepholant, as much a preening peacock as ever, pulled a name out of the jar that was very, _very_ familiar to us.

It was Annie's.

Annie clutched my hand tight, swaying in place as the girls surrounding us inched away, mixed looks of relief and sorrow on their faces. I watched as Annie stood in shock, her face paler than I'd ever seen it, even more than that time I'd set a child's broken arm while she held him down. Her hand was cold and clammy in mine, and I met her eyes, seeing the abject terror right there on the surface.

"Annie Cresta! Come up, now, you're the female Tribute for District Four!" Simon clapped energetically, ignoring the scattered, half-hearted applause and grumblings from the people in the crowd. Two Peacekeepers separated themselves from the line in front of the Dais and headed our way. I felt Annie's hand, as the death grip she had on my own started slipping away. I felt her certainty of her own death and clutched her hand all the harder.

"Let go, Celia. I have to go." She whispered. The Peacekeepers were shouldering their way through the other girls. But I wouldn't let go. Instead, I pulled her back. She staggered backward, her eyes lighting in surprise as I stepped in front of her, meeting the Peacekeepers head on.

Something in my face must have said something to them. They froze, forgetting their duty for an instant, the same instant in which I yelled, "I volunteer!"

A gasp and furious whispering follow my announcement. One of the Peacekeepers turns back, looking at Simon, who nods his head impatiently. "Yes, yes, alright! We have a volunteer! Please come up, young lady!"

The other Peacekeeper reaches out for my arm. I jerk it away, and start forward between them, forcing them to follow after me. I spare a look back at Annie, whose eyes are tearing up. A couple of the girls from the home are comforting her, sending looks of awe my way—surely, an orphan has never volunteered as Tribute.

Well, now one has.

I practically leap up the steps, coming to stand next to Simon Hellepholant, my eyes blazing in fury. I meet his eyes, and he looks away, his shiny grin faltering for an instant before he rallies admirably. "Wonderful! And now, the boy!"

I find Annie in the spot where we were both standing not seconds before. Her sobs can just barely be heard over the boisterous announcing of District Four's escort. She looks up, her teary eyes meeting mine, full of despair and loss. I smile at her, confidently, and in spite of herself she gives me a watery smile back.

"Timothy Samuelson!"

I look over the male half of the crowd for Timothy, but before I can find him, another voice calls out.

"I volunteer!"

The boy—or rather, _man_ , who towers over me, with very respectable sculpted muscles evident through his tight shirt—walks through the crowd up to the dais. He stands to Simon's right, a cocky grin in place, waving to the scattered groups of children cheering for him. He is, undoubtedly, a Career.

"Welcome, my boy! And what might your name be?"

"Anthony Staarsgard." His voice is strong and deep, and I can practically feel the testosterone oozing from his pores. Evidently so can many of the women in the crowd, some of whom openly swoon. It's all I can do not to roll my eyes; wouldn't do to antagonize my fellow tribute…just yet.

He turns to me and extends his hand. His face is outwardly respectable, but his eyes are dismissive. I grip his hand and shake once and let go.

Simon grins and practically bellows out loud, "Wonderful! Now, I give you, the Tributes of District Four!"


	4. Chapter 3

The applause is more widespread, though I think the majority of it is for Anthony. That's fine, the more attention he gets, the less I gain. In the gladiatorial games to follow, it's best to not stand out, to appear weak, or at the least, unthreatening.

Simon motions us back towards the Justice Building, and my attention is taken by the previous Victors—our Mentors, now. Finnick Odair is a very handsome, well-built (but not freakishly so) 19 years old, with chiseled features and wild dirty blonde hair. He grins at me, and in spite of myself I blush (just a little!). But his eyes are inscrutable.

Old Mags—a winner of one of the earliest Hunger Games, whose last name has been practically lost to posterity—beams down at me with a bright smile. I see tears in her eyes; my volunteering for my friend must have touched her. I give her a smile, and she nods at me in approval, brushing a few silver curls back behind her ear with one arthritic hand. She motions me forward, and I'm the first through to the Justice Building, followed by the Mentors and Anthony.

The doors close, and the Head Peacekeeper, a woman I'd never had the misfortune to cross, gestures to doors on either side. "You will wait in these rooms for your friends and family to come say goodbye."

That was apparently all she had to say. Mags patted my shoulder and pointed to the door on the right. Anthony was already stepping into his own room; I had no question his family would be waiting to congratulate him, but I had no family. I ignored the slight pang in my chest and smiled at Mags, walking into the room set aside for me.

The furniture was well designed, a little old but not decrepit in any way. Designs in this building trended in the direction of swirls and spatters, conveying the image of crashing waves and storms at sea. I admired the artwork and furniture for a minute before the door opened, and Annie was throwing herself into my arms.

I awkwardly patted her back as she bawled out her tears. A few minutes of that and she settled into coherence. "You shouldn't have done that, Celia."

I smiled tenderly. "Of course I did. You think I'm going to let my best friend head off to certain death without doing everything I can to stop it?"

She coughed out a laugh, glaring at me through strands of her hair that had fallen over her face. "And now I get to be responsible for _my_ best friend heading off to _her_ certain death in my place? How am I supposed to live with myself?"

"Well. You're supposed to live well, Annie." I hugged her to me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders. She stood a few inches taller than me, and clearly growing into a young woman (in sharp contrast to my nearly boyish build), but she was still like a little sister to me.

Fresh sobs burst out of her next to my ear. I patter her back and set her down on one of the lovely chairs, and pulled one up across from her so we could sit face to face.

"Remember, Annie," I said. "Saddie will have laundry for you, and Nashal will need your help repairing his nets. And stay away from Gregory, I don't like the way he looks at you."

"I will, I promise. And you…you be sure to do your best, right?"

I met her own watery eyes with my own fierce gaze, and felt a smirk spread on my face. "I'll do better than that, Annie. I'll be back in a few weeks, so you better be ready to celebrate."

She laughed again through her tears. She reached out and clasped my hands in hers. We sat like that for a few minutes before a Peacekeeper arrived to escort Annie out. She cried some more, and made me promise to come home.

I didn't cry. But it was close.

As expected, Annie was the only one who wanted to say goodbye. It didn't really bother me; I sat, pulled out Heyward's old knife, and started whittling away at a wooden paperweight on a shelf.

Ten minutes later, a Peacekeeper opened the door. "It's time to go," he intoned in an unenthusiastic drawl. I tucked away my knife and set down the paperweight, which now had a very intricate stylized leaf carved on its surface. I couldn't see the guard's face through his mask, but I could sense he was perturbed by my fooling around with a sharp object. Probably, he'd get in trouble if I accidentally stabbed myself and bled out.

Well, tough.

I stepped out to Anthony saying goodbye to his family. His mother and father looked happy and excited for him, and his two younger brothers stood by, looking at him in adoration. The pang in my heart wasn't of envy, but of how torn up this family was going to be when I came home with their son in a plain wooden casket.

I ignored the family as they ignored me, just another poor orphan reaped and certain to die. That was fine; if everyone underestimated me like they did, then all the better.

We were escorted to a car with our Mentors, where we were all convoyed by Peacekeepers to the train station. There were inhabitants of District Four cordoned off and cheering, with cameras panning over the crowd and us, as we exited the vehicle. Simon seemed quite content to take all the attention, with Finnick almost effortlessly knocking the women off their feet. Their antics annoyed Anthony quite a bit, though he hid it well. He waved and smiled at the crowd; I ignored them and the cameras and walked straight onto the Train.

Mags guided me by the shoulder through a spectacularly furnished compartment to the dining car, where plates and plates of food were piled almost offensively high. I sighed; there was enough food hear to feed the home for a week, and if most of it ended up in the garbage, I wouldn't be surprised. I was starting to truly appreciate the ostentatious waste of the Capitol, the hubris on display. I suppose the simple fact that they demanded of us to give our children over for an annual slaughter should have told me everything I needed to know, but the little things were what really drove it home.

I watched Anthony's reaction to the largess out of the corner of my eye. He was intent on enjoying it, but wasn't awed by the selection in any way. He approached the table like he deserved to be there, a casual arrogance that I imagined was unique to Career Tributes. He'd prepared all his life to fight, to _win_ , and he was so sure of his skill that his winning was almost a foregone conclusion.

I met Finnick O'Dair's eyes from across the table. He gave me a saucy wink and a cheesy grin. I couldn't help but smile; he was very handsome, and he knew it, but I don't think he took himself as seriously as he came across. There was definitely a hard-fought intelligence and world-wariness in his eyes.

I know that it comes from killing children to survive. I've seen that same look in my own eyes a time or two.

The trip is uneventful. Simon is energetic and loud, Mags is silent and grandmotherly, Finnick is cheerful and flirty. He takes pleasure in trying to make me blush, which I admit is a lot easier than I wish. Damn hormones.


	5. Chapter 4

I sat in the last train car, watching the fields and forests fly by as we get closer to the Capitol. I lean back on the couch, fingers running along the colorful swirls in the upholstery, lost in thought.

I found myself thinking back to my first Chuunin Exams—most notably, the Forest of Death. The similarities were striking—limited resources, deadly plants and animals, fellow examinees fighting to the death, and only the most worthy (and lucky) survive. Well, I survived that—I doubt anyone, even the Careers, would be able to match my own experiences with survival and killing.

"It's a beautiful view."

My reverie was broken by the voice of Finnick O'Dair. He'd been draped over a couch, dozing when I'd walked in earlier. Now he was awake, the reflexive ever-present grin once again on his face. He's tossing an orange in one hand, brushing an apple against his button-down shirt, which I notice he'd left unbuttoned almost down to the waist. I rolled my eyes and gave him a pointed look—well, the look's directed at his chest. It's an admonishment, of course. Definitely.

I caught the apple he throws my way and take a bite as collapses onto the lounge chair across from me. He peeled the orange, managing the feat without letting a single drop of juice drip onto his shirt (or chest), which is really quite impressive. I took a bite, savoring the apple's sweet juicy taste.

"It is beautiful. It's too bad most people don't get the chance to leave their towns and see it."

He grinned at me again. "I wasn't talking about the trees, sweety."

I rolled my eyes and threw the apple at him. He caught it and took a bite. I sighed and asked, "Could you do me a favor? I'm about to be thrown into the ring with twenty-three other kids and forced to fight to the death for the perverted entertainment of the masses. Can you let up on the testosterone?" I sent a glare his way as his smile slipped from his face.

Finnick chewed and swallowed, a pensive stare replacing his usual genial countenance. "Alright. Then let's talk about image."

I gave him an incredulous look, and he laughed. "Do you know how I won my games? I was a 14-year-old boy. I wasn't the strongest, or the fastest. I couldn't use a sword, didn't know a damn thing about traps. But I'm a damn handsome man, and I knew how to use that to my advantage. I had rich women swooning over my looks, showering me with gifts, food, clothes, anything I needed. _That's_ how I won.

"The Careers will be the favorites, and the favorites tend to get the best and most frequent donations. Your Mentors—that would be me, cupcake," he flashed that grin at me and I couldn't help but snort a laugh, "we're your biggest proponents to potential sponsors. And that's as important late in the game as early in the game, because as the games go longer, the more expensive the gifts are. And convincing people whose sponsored Tributes are dead to part with money for the person who killed them, well…" Finnick shrugged his shoulders in a show of modesty. "That's where I shine. And of course, there are always those who bet against the favorites, and they're always willing to contribute to a worthy cause in securing their defeat."

I looked at him skeptically, but as I worked through the thought, I started nodding my head. "Alright. Alright, what's my best chance at winning here? Keeping in mind that the more I try to present myself in a good light, the more attention the Careers will pay to me."

"That's the conundrum, isn't it?" He rubbed his fingers over the stubble on his chin. "It would have been nice to be able to present you as a sort of Johanna Mason, but that wouldn't work on someone who volunteered for a friend like you did. She tricked everyone— _everyone_ —into thinking that she was easy pickings, then revealed herself to be a cold-blooded killer."

Johanna Mason won the Games a few years after Finnick did. She was abrasive and acerbic, and arrogant as hell, but I remember her Games as one of the more impressive ones I'd seen. Particularly when she let a Career corner her, then shoved him head-first into a tree and speared him through the eye on a branch. She pulled his bag off his twitching corpse and slipped deeper into the woods without looking back.

"I'm not the timid sort," I replied.

"No, I can see that. Well, you already come across as defiant and self-sacrificing, and those are traits that a crowd can usually find interest in. Put that together with your looks, and you should be able to make a decent enough showing so that my job isn't _too_ hard," he said, the grin slipping back onto his face.

I waited until he took a bite of the apple, then said, "What if I just announce that I'm going to kill them all?"

He choked on the bit of apple he had in his mouth, struggled to swallow it and then came up laughing. "Sweetie, you do that, and you won't even make it out of the starting bloodbath. They'll all gang up on you and you won't last two minutes."

I leaned back and sighed. "Well, at least it would grab their attention."

The train stopped at the station in the city, we got off to throngs of adoring fans, and were swept away by our entourage and the Peacekeepers to a convoy of cars. Anthony and I were seated on either side of Simon, who did his best to exhort the benefits of Capitol life—the parties, the food, the celebrations, the spectacles of the Games. The buildings were all bland and boring in that way that bureaucracy manages to turn all attempts at uniqueness into uniformity. But Simon was a fount of useless information on various social scandals—"That corner is where the Minister of Information's son was arrested trying to buy raiders!"—which did more than enough to distract me from the prospect of the upcoming Games.

I hadn't been afraid of anything to this point. No part of the Reaping or the trip to the city made me feel any fear, but a knot of uneasiness was settling in my stomach. It wasn't the prospect of fighting and killing, but the idea that people would be _watching_ my every move from now until the end of the Games was intimidating.

I controlled my breathing, in and out, in and out. Trying to keep my nerves settled for what I'm sure was going to be an incredible embarrassment. Boy, was I right.

But not in the way that I had expected.

The cars dropped us off at a relatively nondescript building on the edge of the center of the city. There were more people cheering outside the entryway, waving and screaming as we drove past. I watched them, marveling at their commitment to cheering for children about to hack each other to death.

It seemed that every time I saw a crowd of people, my mind immediately went to the idea that they were excited to watch us die. I'm sure that these weren't bad people, only misguided, but I resolved to ignore them from now on—it wasn't doing me any good to think about their excitement over the murder of children. Like when I was being turned into a child soldier in Konoha, it was simpler to just go with it and make the most of my situation.

I was brought back to reality by the opening of the car door. I stepped out into the embrace of three excitable women—triplets, I think, though it was hard to tell, because each one had their skin dyed in either Red, Yellow, or Blue with matching outrageous hairdos. They yipped and fawned over me, talking so rapidly that I couldn't understand who was saying what. My head whipped back and forth between each of them, and I was grateful when the Yellow sister—who I think was in charge?—pushed me through a door, down a hallway, and into a room that looked like a cross between a mortuary and beauty salon.

The walls were stainless steel, surrounding a person-sized raised basin I imagined was for me. I was surrounded by stacks of shelves loaded with containers I could only hope the triplets knew the significance of, because Blue and Red started grabbing them seemingly at random as Yellow practically tore my clothes off. Next thing I know, I was lying in the basin, being washed, rinsed, scalded, scrubbed, and many other sensations I refuse to put a name to because I don't want to think about them.

At the end, the Triplets absconded with every piece of clothing (and quite a bit of my dignity), leaving me alone in nothing more than a robe. The sudden silence was deafening, though very welcome, giving me a chance to catch my breath and collect by thoughts.

A few minutes passed before the door opened again. I stood, awkward in a soft cotton robe, as one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen stepped through the door. Her skin was a soft almond, with full lips and eyes angled like a cat's that gave her a sultry quality. Her hair poured over her shoulders in rivulets, down almost to her waist, sleek and shiny. I felt like an inhuman blob, an amoeba in the vague shape of a person, standing in front of this beauty.

It reminded me of Tsunade—a sense of power and control, and an unshakeable commitment to her work.

She walked behind me, her heels giving a sharp click-click with each step. I found myself unable to move, awaiting the approval or disapproval of this ethereal beauty. Finally, she stood in front of me. I could tell she had come to some sort of decision.

"I can work with this."

Such a simple declaration, but the relief surging through my veins was surprising. She continued, "I am Reva. I design your clothes, and you wear them, and you impress potential sponsors to win the gifts that will keep you alive in the arena. Does that sound acceptable?"

The question was perfunctory; it's not like I could decline her services. What then—I'd be sent out in the chariot wearing my robe? Absurd. "Sure," I said. What else could I say?

Reva snapped her fingers, and the triplets wheeled into the room a mannequin dressed in what I assume I'd be wearing on the chariot. It was light blue, the fabric light and flowing, the simple motion of moving it made it sweep and dance in their air. Fortunately for me, the dress didn't try to enhance assets that I didn't have, and once I had it on and they'd made the necessary adjustments, I looked great. The wispy material fluttered around my arms and legs, with pieces entwined in my auburn hair. I looked like some sort of ghostly sea creature, rising from the waves to bless or curse the mortals in my path.

All I could manage was a breathy "Thank you." The faintest glimpses of a smile graced Reva's face.


	6. Chapter 5

When I emerged from my room into the prep area where all the Chariots awaited the tributes, the other rest of them turn to look at me. Maybe half are standing, alone or in groups, including the tributes from One and Two, and Anthony, my fellow tribute from Four. He snorts and makes a disparaging remark of some kind, and the others laugh. My cheeks heat up in spite of myself, but I raise my nose and walk to my chariot. There are some people who are dressed like trees, one who's obviously a cowboy, and some wrapped in electrical wire.

Time passes, and the rest of the tributes leave their dressing rooms. Some are rather pathetic-looking, like the coal miners from Twelve (who I doubt are any older than thirteen), and others look beautiful (the tributes from One are decked out in gold and silver) and a few look genuinely dangerous (pretty much anything the boy from Eleven wore would look intimidating, I think).

Someone official-looking comes out and announces that the ceremony is about to start, and Anthony breaks away from the other careers and walks over to our chariot. He ignores me, borderline disrespectfully, but it doesn't bother me—he respects the other Careers, and not either of our mentors, as far as I can tell, so I don't have a lot of regard for his intelligence.

The ceremony starts, with District One revealing themselves to raucous cheers, and District Two following behind. Eventually it's our turn, and Anthony waves and smiles to the crowd. I don't—I stare at them, meeting the eyes of these people. I don't know why I keep looking for it, some sort of spark of recognition of the atrocity going on here, but these games have been going on for generations now, so I suppose I shouldn't expect anything more than what's before me. I try not to hate them for it, to remind myself that these people grew up with the belief that these games are right, but it's hard.

When the chariots are all lined up before the promenade, President Snow, a puffy-lipped, white haired man, steps up to the podium. He motions for the crowd to quiet, which it does (slowly), and starts his speech.

"Welcome, Tributes, to the Seventieth Hunger Games!"

He goes on for some time, spouting the same garbage I've heard in history classes. Blah blah, Dark Days, yadda yadda, rebellion, ho hum, Hunger Games. It's all ridiculous; it's the same story retold a thousand times. People with power divide and conquer, and use their strength to cut down anyone who could be a threat.

But there's only so much of that people will take, for so long, before the status quo becomes intolerable. Eventually, enough is enough, and even probable death is better than certain misery. At some point, if you keep the heat on too long, the kettle boils over. That's what will, ultimately, doom the Capitol.

But not just yet. Katniss Everdeen is only twelve years old; her sister will be reaped in four years, and she will step forward and start the unraveling of the bindings that tie the entire system together. The best thing I can do, the best thing any of us can do, is to provide as much kindling as possible. So that when the Girl On Fire is set alight, there's plenty to keep her fire burning until Panem is destroyed and a new, greater Panem can rise from its ashes.

Step One: Don't die. Piece of cake.

I really, really hated Anthony.

"Who needs a pretty-boy for a mentor? We're practically the same age, and I'm a better fighter than you, trident or no trident."

I watch him stalk out of the shared living space to his bedroom. Finnick is scowling, but Mags has a thoughtful look on her face. She turns to me and makes a motion with her hands, and mumbles "Two?"

I give her a half-smile. "Sure, two mentors sounds great. I bet I could use the help."

Finnick's scowl turns into his trademark rakish grin, though his eyes still hide a twinge of anger. "Oh? What happened to 'I'm just going to kill them all'?"

I openly mull the thought. "Well, I suppose it might make for a more interesting Games if I don't do that. I mean, if I kill them all right away, that would make it all pretty short, wouldn't it?" I nod my head as though I've come to a decision. "Besides, killing them all _myself_...it's just too troublesome."

Finnick laughs. I like his laugh; not the one he uses when he thinks he should be laughing, or when he's trying to play the part of the handsome young playboy; the one that's unrestrained, open, inviting. It feels like he releases the tight grip he has on his soul, and lets himself enjoy life, instead of always fearing it's going to be taken away at any moment. I suppose the Hunger Games does that to you.

Or...maybe it's something else.

"Right, well then! Let's go over all the details you probably don't know, or at least don't know you know." He drops himself across a love seat and grabs a bowl of grapes, resting them on his lap. "First order of business—the sort of people you'll find in the arena. Now I know everyone's their own person and all that, but really you can boil down anyone mostly into three groups."

He pauses every few lines to toss a grape in his mouth. "The Victims, unfortunately—the ones too emotionally devastated by their Reaping, or too unskilled to have any idea what they're doing. Those tend to die off within the first few days, either at the opening battle, through the dangers of the environment, or from being hunted down by the Careers." Finnick shrugs. "No point allying with them, since they can panic easily and be dangerously unpredictable."

I nod, and he says, "The Careers, those who've been training for this since they were kids. From Districts One and Two, and sometimes Four—Anthony's a good example of that—taught to wield weapons since they were old enough to hold them. They make most of the kills, so the best strategy is to stay out of their way while they're inevitably whittled down, then hope that they fight amongst themselves and kill each other off. Of course, if they stay strong and united, the Gamemasters tend to drive the other Tributes towards them, so you have to be careful with that strategy. If one or two gets picked off early on, then things can even out."

Mags mumbles something I don't catch, and Finnick chuckles. "Of course, last but not least," he sweeps his arms out and ducks his head in acknowledgment, "The Survivors. The people tenacious enough to survive, either by living off the land, or scavenging off the fallen and unwary. The tend to have the most level heads on their shoulders, they know to prioritize finding fresh water, how to set traps, fighting dirty—the dark horses, the ones that people often underestimate until it's too late."

And that fits Finnick to a T. Me too, though no one really knows it.

"Of course, if you survive against your fellow Tributes, you still have to face the natural hazards of the arena—and the unnatural ones, provided by the Gamemakers. Those tend to be set off under many circumstances—if things get to boring, if there's been a shortage of blood, to drive people together to fight, or just because they _can_."

Finnick tosses a grape extra high, and it bounces off his forehead and into his mouth. He grins at me, and I give a few claps of polite applause. "Their targets tend to be the least interesting of the Tributes, so you better be interesting, or they'll bring interesting to you."

He tosses another grape even higher, and as it begins its descent, I launch an olive off the mirror, clipping the grape in midair, and whirl a spoon of to the side. It helicopters into the grape, throwing it right into my own open mouth. "Well," I say, chewing thoughtfully, "I guess I better be _interesting_ , don't you think?"

I wave goodnight and climb the stairs to my own bedroom.


	7. Chapter 6

The elevator doors open to the grunts and cries of the other tributes. The Careers are making most of the noise, wrestling and sword-fighting and knife-throwing, making a spectacle of themselves for the Gamemakers. Around the periphery, the less showy, more inexperienced of us try to learn some valuable skills to stay alive.

For most of them, it won't matter. It's like first opening the book the day before the big test—you won't learn enough to make a difference.

I'm the last of everyone to arrive. I must have missed whatever introduction is made, so I just take my time and walk around the various stations. I match faces with my memories from the various recaps. Nero and Helena, from One, are making most of the noise, clashing with swords of various length. Anthony is exchanging spear thrusts with the boy from Two, Geonosis (Geo, as Anthony calls him). And Gladiola, the girl from Two, is throwing knives at dummies lining the walls. I recall the District Two girl from the Seventy Fourth Games was also a knife thrower, according to the book—perhaps it's something they stress in whatever school they have in that district.

I meander past a half dozen tributes being taught a rudimentary trap, past a station with hanging lengths of rope, and stop in a station occupied by the boy from District Seven. His name is Jalen, if memory serves, maybe a year older than me, and he's feeding small bits of wood into a growing fire. He's tall and skinny, with wiry muscles and work-calloused hands. His hair hangs long and unkempt past his ears, and he absently sweeps it back with his hands, his attention fully on the flames before him. He looks up at me, and I nod my head and move on.

District Seven is in the Northwest, and they work with lumber and paper. It makes sense that someone from there would be capable in that sort of environment. It plays to my strengths, as well, but then, I can't think of a place that wouldn't work to some sort of advantage for me—desert, forest, seaside, cityscape, I've had firsthand experience at fighting and surviving in all of them.

I watch, for a time, as the boy from Eleven swings a mace at a trainer. The way the Careers are eyeing him, I wouldn't be surprised if they try to recruit him into their alliance, but the people from the outlying districts tend to be more independent and resentful of the Capitol and its flunkies—which include those Career Districts. I doubt he'd join for more than a short while, and from the calculating look in his eyes, it would be only to put himself in a position to whittle away at their numbers.

I move over to the quarter of the gym devoted to climbing, draped with netting, hanging ropes, and a rock wall. Three Tributes are standing in line, watching as a fourth tries to climb up the net draped at an angle. She gets maybe a third of the way up before slipping and falling to the mats. There are a few snickers and comments as the trainers move to help her.

I spend the rest of our time watching the Careers fight, and making note of the few other tributes that are worth keeping an eye on. There are a couple, but for the most part they seem standoffish and even a little sinister; the kind that will stick a knife in your back at the first opportunity. The rest look hopeless, but who knows; if they survive the first few days, maybe one or two could make solid allies.

I'm certain I could take any one of these Careers one-on-one, but that's not how the Careers tend to operate. If nothing else, one of these tributes might make a good distraction during a fight.

"You know, if you don't do anything during training, no one's going to want to ally with you."

Finnick leans over the back of the couch where I'm laying down with a book. The book is about a pair of twins running away from home and being abducted by aliens—something so absurd it captures my imagination. Go figure. "If I keep them from seeing what I can do, then they won't be able to predict what I will do." I turn the page. It really is a pretty engrossing read. "Besides, it gives me the chance to observe what the rest of them are capable of. Which, for just about all of them, is 'not much.'"

Mag brings over a bowl of sliced fruit. I take a piece of cantaloupe with a quick thanks. She makes a complicated series of hand gestures and mumbles some words at Finnick, who rolls his eyes. "If you don't give them a reason to be wary of you, they'll target you right away. You're not thinking this through."

"If I make myself appear threatening, they're going to target me right away, because I don't have the intimidation factor to go along with it. Look at me, do I look at all like someone you should be wary of?" A drop of juice rolls down my chin to put an exclamation point on _that_ bit of discussion.

Finnick throws up his hands and falls melodramatically into his love seat. "I give up. How am I supposed to sell this girl to the sponsors if she won't give them a reason to sponsor her?"

Mags' smile drops from her face and she gives Finnick a look I don't quite get. He turns a little gray and looks away; I wonder what that was all about? Before I can ask, he rises from his seat and says, "That reminds me, I have a date with a special someone." He sends a saucy wink my way, which, again, makes me blush. "If I'm not back before you leave, good luck!"

The next morning, all of the Tributes gather together outside the training center and wait to be called in. Nero from One goes first, followed fifteen minutes later by Helena, and so on. I take the time to listen to the quiet mutterings of the other Tributes as they review information or give themselves pep talks or quietly break down. Then it's Anthony's turn, and then mine, after almost two hours. I don't envy the people at the end of the line.

I walk through the doors, looking around at the now vacant gym, then to the dais where the Gamemakers sit or stand. Some are sipping from glasses of wine, or chatting happily amongst themselves, but most are watching me, wondering what I will do, when I'd seemed so disinterested in showing off my talents before.

When thinking about what I'd do to show off my abilities, I doubted that I'd impress them with just another bought of fancy swordplay, or some sort of camouflage or trap setting. So I figured I'd show them something they hadn't seen; at least, not a hundred times before.

I swipe a knife as I walk over to the rock wall and start climbing. I don't secure a harness, just grab and pulled myself up as swiftly as I can, and within thirty seconds I'm at the top of the wall, forty feet up. I can hear a few murmurs of interest from the gallery, which turn to gasps as I leap off the rocks.

I catch myself on one of the ropes, swing back and forth a few times, and leap onto another, and another, until I'm swinging on the other side of the training center. I climb up to the rafters, to the criss-crossing support framework along the ceiling. I stop when I'm overlooking the row of practice dummies, make a few calculations in my head, and jump.

I land on the one in the middle, summersaulting to my feet, leaving the knife quivering in the center of its face. There are cheers and applause from the Gamemakers, making me smile in spite of myself. I go to bow, which is when I notice the pain coming from my left shoulder.

It's bulging out of socket; how embarrassing.

So, I pop it back in. And a couple of Gamemakers faint. The rest, who had been clapping, are stunned, a few with mouths agape. Clearly, being a Gamemaker isn't an immunity to being squeamish? Which is ironic, because they spend their days thinking up entertaining ways to kill children. Go figure.

I bow, then stand awkwardly for a few moments until the head Gamemaker, a man with a finely cut goatee, clears his throat. "Thank you, Ms. Sawyer. You can go."

I nod and move to the set of elevators on the other side of the gym. I massage my shoulder; it's sore, but not too bad. I'll probably ask Finnick if I can have it looked at, since I doubt the Gamemakers would like for me to be in anything other than tip-top shape. And I don't particularly want to be hurting from the start of the Games, myself.

The elevator ride is quick, and the doors open to our suite where I find Finnick halfway to comatose, from the first empty bottle of liquor on the table, and the second he was making solid headway on.

He looks up, his eyes slightly unfocused and rimmed with deep bruising indicating he hasn't been to bed from the night before—at least, not to sleep. "There she is! How'd the performance go? Impress any of the Gamemakersh?" he asks, his words slurring a bit at the end as he takes another sip from his glass.

"I think I disgusted them, actually. A few of them fainted."

That manages to draw his attention away from his glass. "What? How'd you spin _that?_ "

I grab the second bottle and fall onto the couch, slipping it between the cushions and out of his reach. I ignore his pout and say, "Well, I was doing some acrobatics, and fumbled the landing a bit. I dislocated my shoulder, but it's fine, I popped it right back in."

He stares at me, dumbfounded, and opens his mouth to say…something, before he turns visibly green and bolts to the sink. Ah, well, at least he's not drinking anymore.


	8. Chapter 7

EDIT: Made a slight change to the beginning to make it make a bit more sense.

* * *

"You should be very happy with a six. That's a great score for a non-Career. I scored a six, myself!"

Finnick wouldn't stop nagging me about what I did in front of the Gamemakers. When I kept refusing to tell him, he started guessing what score I'd get. I think he was deliberately low-balling it just to get a rise out of me, but it wasn't working.

On top of that, he was back to tossing food in the air and catching it in his mouth. Pieces of cheese, crackers, bits of meat and pastry; anything he could get his hands on. It looked like my little trick with the grape the other day had sparked some sort of competitive spirit in him, since he kept trying to do bank shots off of walls and furniture, usually missing comically. Mags and Reva ignore him, except for the instances when he 'accidentally' misses and hits them with bits of food.

I, meanwhile, very carefully don't stare at the streak of chocolate in Finnick's hair.

"I'd be happy if they skipped me altogether. I don't want anyone having any idea what to expect."

Finnick tosses another piece of food in the air, but misjudges the angle and it lands with a _plop_ in a pot of liquid cheese. "But they're not going to, so we'll see how much you impressed the Gamemakers. They'll probably see through what you were doing in front of the other Tributes, so that might end up costing you in the long run."

"What? Why'd you think that?" I try to wipe the cheese from my shirt, which only causes it to spread.

Reva perches on the edge of the couch, having somehow managed to avoid the cheese spray, looking a model of elegance I could never hope to match. "If your opponents don't know what to expect, then neither will the sponsors. They will spend their money on other Tributes. I know you think you don't need their assistance, but what they don't contribute to you will go towards one of the other Tributes."

I roll the thought over in my head. "So, what you're saying is that the best strategy I can have is to find one of these other Tributes and kill them for their gifts?"

Reva levels a stern look at me. "That's not quite what I meant—"

We're interrupted by the seal of Panem flashing on the display over the national anthem. It sounds for almost a minute, then the grinning face of Caesar Flickerman appears, his hair and jacket a bright golden yellow. "Good evening, Panem! And welcome to the Official Reading of Scores!"

He goes on for some time about how _wonderful_ it is to hear the Gamemakers wax poetic about this or that Tribute, the subtle hints about the strengths of the representatives of the Districts, before it's time to actually announce the numbers. He opens up with Nero, from One, who scores a very respectable Ten, followed by Helena, with a nine. The two from Two manage an eight each, the boy and girl from Three earn a six and seven respectably, and then it's Anthony's turn.

Anthony's not here; technically, he's supposed to be, but he IS a Career, and the rules are always a little different for them. All of the Careers are down in one of their suites, partying, so I can only imagine how he would react to the nine he's given.

Then, it's my turn.

"And now, Celia, from District Four, we have…a _nine_ _!_ "

I'm surprised; I guess injuring my shoulder didn't hurt my assessment? Finnick lets out a whoop, and Mags clutches my arm and gives me a gap-toothed grin.

"Well done, Celia," Reva graces me with a warm smile of her own, and I match it.

"I can sell a nine, I can definitely work with that. Good job, sweetie." Finnick grinned at me, and I couldn't help but grin back. "I wonder how Anthony feels about you matching his score?"

Anthony takes it, apparently, fairly well. At least, he isn't aggressive or attempting to intimidate me, but there's a look in his eyes, newly assessing, that replaces the dismissiveness from before. I'm not just another Tribute, now, to him. I'm a threat—or a target.

There were a few other standouts, with the boy from District Seven, who I remember from the fire starting station, earning a seven, matched by the girl from Eight, and the boy from Eleven with an eight. Those are about as high as you usually get for non-Careers—myself excluded.

But I'm not a non-Career, am I? I've been doing this all my life. All my _lives._ Fighting and killing and dying. There's something refreshing in how upfront it is now. No lies, no pretenses, just brutal, ugly truth.

Well, at least to us Tributes, that's how it is. The Capitol doesn't hide what the Hunger Games are all about; they don't treat us as anything more than the sacrifices they make us out to be. The audience, on the other hand, shows how much they buy the lie the Capitol tries to sell _them._

* * *

A raucous cheer sounds as the lights ignite, revealing Caesar Flickerman standing on stage with a backdrop that reads "70th HUNGER GAMES". He waves to the crowd, waiting patiently as the cheers die down, before going into a monologue about the Hunger Games and how exciting it is to introduce a new set of Tributes. He actually says 'a set,' as if we were all an annual limited-time special product we're all thrilled to see come back every year.

I'm a McRib to these people. Wonderful.

Eventually he gets on with it, and Helena is the first of us to head out. I watch past the waiting Tributes, standing in line behind the boy from Three.

"Helena, it's so good to see you. You know, we had your sister here on this very stage for the Sixty Eighth Games, how does it feel to follow in your sister's footsteps?"

She gives the crowd a dazzling grin and says, "Wonderful, Caesar! I'm thrilled to be here. I just hope I make it all the way to the end!"

Caesar laughs, "Well of course, we'd love to see you here again, my dear. I just love to see sibling rivalry!So much _fun!_ "

The crowd roars, apparently as thrilled as he is to have another Tribute's younger sister in the Games. I imagine this sort of thing happens often enough with Careers, though having sibling Victors is a rare thing indeed.

Once they calm down again, Caesar moves on and asks, "Helena, we were all very impressed to see your score of nine. How do you feel about scoring one of the highest scores of the girls?"

"Caesar, I'm so happy that I could impress the Gamemakers enough for a nine! I hope everyone out there knows that I'm ready and willing to do whatever it takes to win these Games!"

Happy, was it? I smirk. That wasn't a glare of _happiness_ she was shooting my way earlier. She talks a good game, but I'll be watching my back for her from the start. She's not the sort to share the top spot with anyone. Well, that's fine. Neither am I.

The rest of the interviews go fine, without any surprises, and before too long, I'm next. I step into the spotlight and wait a few seconds as the crowd cheers. I'm dressed in sweeping swathes of fabric, arranged to look like sea waves, my hair done up in curls and powdered white on the tips so I resemble a goddess emerging from the waves. I see on a television screen that the spotlight glints off of me in such a way so that when I move, my dress flutters and flows as though I'm pushing through the sea itself.

I have to remember to thank Reva. I'm _beautiful_.

I move forward until Caesar takes my hand and skillfully guides me to my seat; turns out, a blinding spotlight makes seeing anything on the stage pretty damn hard. The crowd quiets and Caesar turns his megawatt smile on me and I'm nearly blinded by the light shining off his gold hair.

"Celia! It's so good to see you. And what a lovely dress, you look magnificent!"

"Thank you, Caesar. I can't take any credit, though, it's all Reva. She's the most talented designer I've ever seen!" I motion to where she's sitting in the second row, and for a moment the camera focuses on her cool visage. She gives one elegant nod with a hint of a smile gracing her lips, and then the camera's back on me.

"Now Celia, I wanted to ask you about the young lady you volunteered for. Am I wrong in assuming she's a friend of yours?"

I direct my answer, not at Caesar or the crowd, but to Annie, who certainly is watching me at this moment. "Annie's my best friend. She's the first one who smiled at me after my adopted parents died, and I'll never forget it. She's the nicest person I've ever known, and I couldn't let her go into the Games. I couldn't watch that."

The audience 'aw's at my heartfelt statement. I mean every word of it; I could _not_ stand by and watch that wonderful young girl destroyed by this awful affront to human decency. I don't say that, though; there's noble self-sacrifice, and then there's spitting in the face of the Capitol.

Plenty of time for that later.

Caesar's picked up the conversational ball and moves forward. "Well, I could hardly argue that anyone would be more capable than you, my dear. After all, a nine! Tied with Helena for the top of the girls! Can you tell us how you did it? I know you can't say what you did, that's between you and the Gamemakers! But can you give us a _hint_ of what's to come?"

"Well, I suppose there's _something_ I can say about that, Caesar," I reply, a sharp grin on my face. The crowd buzzes in excitement and it feels like everyone is leaning forward, waiting for me to spill my secrets. I feel light-headed for a moment, but a deep breath takes care of that; this is no time for stage fright to rear its ugly head.

"Caesar, you've seen many, _many_ Hunger Games before this one, right?"

He looks comically perturbed by this. "Oh come on, now, it's not been _that_ many!" He turns his frown on the audience and looks furtive, which makes the crowd laugh and cheer. A genuine smile breaks through my facade for the first time tonight; if nothing else, he's very charming.

"Oh Caesar, I didn't mean it like _that!_ I mean, you've seen Tributes and Victors who've been masters of whatever skills they've learned, right?"

"You mean, sword fighting and camouflage, right? Of course! Only a few years ago, your mentor showed unparalleled prowess with his trident!" The camera's on Finnick, who gives a dramatic bow to girlish shrieks from the audience (and probably from homes across the Capitol, as well). "Are you saying that there's something you're that good at?"

Everyone is hushed now, as Caesar leans intently forward. I feel like the entire nation is waiting for my next words. "Of course, Caesar. Swords and knives, and tridents too. Disguise and camouflage, trapping, starting fires, living off the land, there have been many masters of their craft on this stage before and after Hunger Games. But," and my voice lowers here, as if I'm telling them all a big secret, "there's something that _none_ of them have been masters of, Caesar. Something that I'm very, very good at."

I wait, and Caesar asks the question. "What are you very, very good at, Celia?"

I tilt my head sideways, just a bit. "Why, Caesar. I'm good at _killing._ "

The smile that breaks out on my face is sharp and deadly, just like me.

* * *

A note about the Games themselves—I know that, in canon, these would be the one that end because of the dam bursting and all the other Tributes drowning, but that's _boring_ to me, so I'm doing my own thing. It'll be fun, trust me.


	9. Chapter 8

The audience seems unsure how to react; a number laughed, a hesitant, stilted thing that died pretty quickly when I didn't share in the joke. Caesar rallies admirably, but in the end, I think I achieve my goal of unnerving everyone. The looks I receive from my fellow Tributes are wary or fearful, but the Careers have already been ushered away by the time I leaves the stage.

Finnick escorts me to our vehicle, and spends our trip back to my rooms staring at me with an unreadable look in his eyes. His face is stern, all evidence of the playful flirt gone. He's quiet until we reach the elevator.

"I just don't get you," he says.

I roll my eyes. "What's there to get?"

"Your plan from the beginning was to stay under the radar and not draw attention to yourself. How is what you said tonight going to accomplish anything but?"

His question makes me angry, and I'm about to snap back at him when I hold myself back. He's not _wrong._ I make myself think back, and dredge up the emotions I've been trying to ignore for the past week. Anger, yes, and frustration...but also a twinge of impatience and _fear._

Suddenly, I'm just feeling tired. I take a deep breath and let it out, stepping out of the elevator and into our suites. It's empty save for the two of us; we've even beat the silent servants back. "I'm sick of this show, Finnick. I just want it over with."

"I get that, believe me, I do." His hand rests on my shoulder reassuringly. "I've seen it in other Tributes, too. The tension gets to be too much, and they lash out in some way. But you can't let that happen."

"I know. I don't want the other Tributes to target me, we've talked about this befo—"

"You think I'm worried about the Tributes?" Finnick cuts me off, an intense look on his face. "Celia, trust me. There's nothing the people running the Games hate more than being shown up. You play by their rules, inside and outside the arena, and even then..."

He waves off the rest of whatever he was going to say. It's the first hint I've had that maybe everything isn't as it appears on the surface. I say the words that he hesitates to speak. "No Tribute wins the Games. The Capitol is the only winner. They won't let anyone else win."

Finnick and I stare into each others' eyes. I think we're finally on the same page. "You launch tomorrow, and then you'll be in the thick of it," he says. "Don't do anything that might be misconstrued by anyone. I won't see you tomorrow, I'll be leaving early for the Mentors' lounge where we manage all the potential sponsors." A half smirk lights across his face. "Maybe they'll like your little announcement there. I'll see what I can do. Any requests?"

I pretend to think about it for a moment. "Signed naked picture of the sultry Finnick Odair?"

"Ha!" He pushes me towards my room. "Go to bed, you lunatic. Try to get some sleep, eh?"

"Sure, sure." I take a few steps towards my bedroom as he heads towards his own. I stop at the top of the stairs and turn back. "Oh, Finnick?"

He looks my way, and I say, "See you in a few weeks."

His face is blank for a moment before he smiles a genuine smile. "Damned if I don't think you will, sweetie."

* * *

I'm sitting in a seat near the front of the hovercraft as we lift off to the arena. There wasn't anything in particular that I remembered about this arena, except maybe...flooding? That didn't tell me much of anything. There are a lot of ways a flood could happen.

The atmosphere in the craft is full of anxiety and fear, from the majority of the Tributes. I can see a couple trying to keep themselves from hyperventilating or vomiting, and a few seem to have settled into a shocked docility, as if having come to terms with their imminent demise. By contrast, Neo and Geo are laughing and joking with each other, and Anthony is leaning back in his seat with a smile on his face.

My seat is directly across from Helena's, the girl from One, which is awkward and uncomfortable, since she seems to have taken my matching her score personally. She just sits there and glares at me, and it's a little unnerving. "You want something?" I ask, just to break the tension.

"Your blood on my knives," she answers.

I blink in surprise, and she smirks. "Well," I respond, "ask a stupid question, eh?"

She won't let me leave the Cornucopia. Well, that's just fine. If I have to cut my way through her, so be it.

A few more minutes pass before we land. The ramp lowers, and I take a look around as we funnel out the hovercraft. We're in an underground bunker of some sort, about a hundred yards below the retractable roof I can just make out through the shadows. Floodlights illuminate our landing area and a walkway that leads into the bedrock and, probably, to our launch rooms.

Reva's here, and so are the rest of the stylists, to guide us to our destination. I mutely let her guide me along the curving tunnel with the others until we come to my room. Inside, I disrobe and put on the synthetic polymer material left for me. It fits snugly against my skin, dense and warm. "A cool environment, I think," Reva murmurs, and I nod in agreement.

"Sixty seconds to launch," a voice squeaks from a speaker.

I finish getting dressed, and step into the tube once it opens. I turn and meet Reva's eyes, and for the first time I see something other than her usual cool gaze. It's not much; a light furrow in her brow, some tension around her mouth.

I smile at her and mouth, "Don't worry."

Then the countdown is finishing, and I'm rising up out of the tube into the arena.

The sun is shining directly overhead, and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. And when they do, I swear. There aren't many environments I wouldn't have an advantage in, but this one is one of them.

We're in a canyon.

The walls rise steeply at almost perpendicular angles to the ground, grooved and ridged. Climbing might be possible, but everyone would see you. There's a river running to my left about fifty feet wide, the water rushing past fairly swiftly; a weak swimmer probably wouldn't make it across. Spread out around the Cornucopia are crates, weapons, and packs of various sizes. And in the distance, past the silvery metallic horn, is a dam.

I look around again, searching for something...there. And there, there, dotted all along the walls that I can see are caves. Who knows how deep they are, but I'd bet that they're more than just a few feet deep. That must be where they expect us to run to: a cave system, where we'd be stumbling along in the dark, into each other or whatever hazards exist inside.

There are three Tributes to my left, none of them recognizable. Five over to my right is Geo. I take note of where the Careers are arrayed, and find a bit of smug satisfaction that Helena is the last on the very end of our half-circle. I send a smirk her way, and I can tell she can see it. Wonderful.

A soft gasp reaches my ears, mere seconds before a blast nearly shatters my eardrums. There are cries as the other Tributes stumble around on their pedestals, and the dust clears to show the remains of what had been the girl from Five. She must have dropped something onto the ground and set off a mine, blowing her to smithereens. I think I can make out a hand on one of the backpacks littering the arena.

Well, one down. Twenty-two to go.

The countdown clock ticks down. Thirty-six, thirty-five. I steady my breathing, keeping my heart rate low. Twenty-seven, Twenty-six. I roll my shoulders and shake out my arms. Twenty, Nineteen.

I glance around at the other Tributes. A few seemed unnerved, on the verge of panic, at the fate of the dead girl.

Fourteen. Thirteen.

Perhaps they're just now realizing how _real_ this is.

Eleven. Ten.

Live or die.

Seven. Six.

I cannot die.

Five.

I _will_ not die.

Four.

I am a blade.

Three.

I am one with the shadows.

Two.

There will be only one.

One.

It will be _me_.

Zero.

I launch myself forward, sprinting all-out for the sleek katana leaning against a crate. I get there and grab it, spinning and swinging at the arm of a Tribute. It cuts deep, sliding through skin and muscle and bone almost effortlessly. Another swipe slices through the startled Tribute's throat. I turn to avoid the spray of blood, deflecting a spear thrust from a terrified Tribute. He backs away, stumbling, only to fall forward, a knife in his back.

I knock away another knife, thrown by Helena, and then have to backpedal as Geo is coming at me with his own sword, a large, heavy blade that looks as if it could cut through a person in one slice. I parry his swings, deflecting his blows and keeping him between Helena and me, until he finally overswings.

Then I'm inside his guard, slicing deep into his thigh. He screams, and I wrench the blade away, knocking back a wild swing as blood starts gushing from his severed femoral artery. But now, there's no one between me and Helena. I spin, ready for anything, only to see her running full out towards a cave. Anthony and Gladiola are at the mouth, she with a bow and arrow, covering Helena from pursuit. They have three or four backpacks between them, and a few more weapons I take stock, and dive back into the fray.

A few kills later, and aside from the boy from Eleven—Titus, I think his name was—all of the other Tributes have fled or died.

I keep my eye on the retreating Careers as I turn my attention to Titus. He's gathering backpacks together, a wicked-looking saber sheathed on his thigh. I watch as he strips weapons from the dead, and rises to meet my eyes.

I'm covered in blood, can feel it sticking to my blonde hair and neck. I can even feel it through my clothes, wet and sticky, and still warm. He's not quite as soaked as I am, though you can tell he's been in a fight. And that he won it, since he seems completely unharmed.

Then, the canon blasts start. I count, one, two, three...nine. Nine dead. A quick look around tells me that they're all here, spread out around the Cornucopia. There's Geo, and I see Nero lying dead not far from Titus. Six other bodies, and...the crater that's the only evidence left of the girl from Five.

Titus and I stare at each other, until he breaks the silence. "I got no beef with you."

I hesitate, then lower my sword. "Same here."

He noticeably relaxes. He's not _relaxed,_ but not quite on edge, either. "So?" he asks.

"So what?" I ask back.

"So, are you gonna help me take what we want, then throw the rest in the river?"

I think about it for a moment, then a smile breaks out on my face. "Sure. Pick out the weapons you want, and I'll throw the rest away. Just leave me a couple of knives, would you?"

He grunts and strides over to the rack. I move to take stock of all the backpacks, emptying them and organizing their contents. Sleeping bags, canteens, medicine, bandages, knives. Rope, several pairs of climbing cleats, picks, shovels—climbing equipment. I take most of the redundant supplies and dump them in the water, leaving enough of what's left for the two of us. I pack a set in one of the backpacks for me, and leave the rest out for Titus, so he can pack what he wants.

After a break near the river, using the opportunity to rinse off as much of the blood as I can (surprisingly, it washes right out of my clothes), I move on to the crates, opening them and finding packs and packs of food. Dried meats, fruit, vegetables, bottles of water, even a few boxes of candy. I sort that, too, and by the time I'm done, Titus is walking towards me.

He stops a half dozen steps away, and tosses me a bag with a single strap. "Take what you want, I've got what I need." He steps over with one of his own and we start packing food into our bags. I notice he put another katana and a pair of knives in my bag and shoot him a smile of thanks.

Once we're done with the food and Titus has packed what he wants, and we've dumped the rest, the two of us stand facing each other. It's a little awkward, and if we were to start fighting now, I'd be at a disadvantage, but he makes no move to attack and neither do I.

Instead, he nods at me once. "I think if we'd met outside of the Games, we could have been friends," he says, almost whimsically.

I grin back at him. "Yeah, you're not so bad of a guy yourself. I hope someone kills you so I don't have to," I joke. It's macabre, but that's what the Hunger Games do to you.

He chuckles. "Right back at you, girl." He hesitates for a moment, then sticks his hand out.

I meet it and we shake, once. He turns and heads downriver, and I go up, ducking into a cave about a quarter-mile upstream. It's well-hidden, behind some shrubs and rocks, and a few aesthetic adjustments hide it almost completely from sight—and a few traps ensure I won't be killed in my sleep. I spread out my sleeping bag at the back wall where the cave ends, and lay down for some well-deserved rest.

Nine down, fourteen to go.


	10. Chapter 9

The next few days are pretty tame. I scout out the area immediately surrounding my hideout, setting traps all around. Ultimately useless, however, since they don't catch anyone. During this time, I don't see a single Tribute—aside from in the sky during the recanting of each day's deaths, of course—and, after I figure I've pushed the limits of the Gamemakers' tolerance of my passivism far enough, I set out to explore upstream.

I pass a few caves with no signs of life aside from a few birds and plants dotting the landscape. I reach the dam without any trouble, and take the time to survey it. It's big, probably about three hundred feet high, with water pouring out of a series of huge pipes near the base into the river bed. Its face is smooth concrete, free of anything a climber could latch onto to pull themselves up.

I could probably climb along the sides of the cliffs on either end, but…it doesn't seem worthwhile at the moment. Instead, I turn and enter one of the caves to my right. It inclines gradually for a short while after I'm stuck in the pitch black. I pull out of one of my bags' pockets a small flashlight and turn it on, allowing its dim light to illuminate the cave walls. They're rounded, clearly tunneled out, and dry. The latter aspect is good, because it'll be hard enough picking up any sounds of people or animals with the constant sound of running water in the background.

I spend the next few hours traversing tunnel after tunnel, making a rough map on a notepad I'd pulled from my supplies. It's not perfect, since I don't really have a way of marking three dimensions, but I make do. I discover a number of small caverns, some with walls covered in lines of minerals and crystals that reflect the light from my flashlight quite beautifully.

It's when I enter one of these caverns that I come upon the first signs of life since leaving the Cornucopia. This is filled with pathways winding around stalagmites jutting from the ground and the sound of water dripping from the ceiling. Footsteps—two sets of them—seem to be echoing from one of the tunnels feeding into the massive room. From the pace, I can tell that they're running.

Is one chasing the other?

No. They're both being chased.

I see the two boys emerge from one tunnel, gasping for breath, weaving their way in my direction around the stone obstacles in their path. The one in front is carrying an old-fashioned lantern, and with its dim, wavering light, I can see exactly what they're running from.

It's a dragon.

Well, not an actual dragon, obviously—some sort of muttation—but it's a giant, scaly lizard, easily ten feet tall and thirty feet long. It's covered in shiny scales, with four muscular legs ending in a number of vicious-looking talons. Its neck is long, snake-like, ending with a head full of far too many sharp teeth. Then it roars, and I jump, because it's suddenly charging through stalagmites, shattering them like twigs.

One of the boys is lagging behind the other—and then he's not. The dragon snaps him up with a might chomp of his jaws. Blood sprays everywhere, and the mangled corpse is thrown against the wall. A muffled cannon blast echoes off the walls as the body falls flailing to the ground.

I recognize the remaining boy as the one from Seven. The dragon's killing of his partner is good luck for him because he doesn't stop running when the dragon pauses for the kill—but it's bad for me, because he's running in my direction. And soon, the dragon will be following him.

I could turn and run, but I couldn't outrun the dragon. So I don't try. Instead, I climb up the side of the wall until I'm almost at the ceiling, clinging to the side of a ledge. My fellow tribute runs past me, and the dragon is only a few yards behind him. I have to time it perfectly.

I jump onto the dragon's back.

It's so intent on its prey that the dragon doesn't notice me clinging to its back, at first. I have plenty of time to draw my sword and plunge it right in between the ridges along its back, right into the spinal cord. The dragon gives off one choked cry before it slams to the ground.

I manage to hold on, mostly by clinging to my katana, wedged as it is between the massive vertebrae. The head twitches a few times and, finally, goes still.

I still wait a little bit before pulling my sword from the dead dragon, and inch around until I'm clear—just in case it has one last bite in it. The last Tribute's nowhere to be found, so I head back into the cavern and inspect the dead Tribute. I _think_ he's the from Five, but his body's so mangled I can't be sure. Regardless, I go through the backpack lying next to his corpse. A few bandages, some vacuum-sealed beef, and a gallon of kerosene.

Hmm. That could be useful.

I take the tunnel that the boys had fled from. I pass two places where large amounts of blood are splattered—the bodies were already collected, somehow—and come to the biggest cavern I've seen yet. Easily bigger than a football field and more than fifty feet high, It's illuminated by a hole in the ceiling, light shining through onto a pool of water. I can tell by the smell of animal musk and droppings that this must have been the dragon's den.

I guess it's lucky for me that there was only the one dragon.

I take a circuit of the den and find, to my surprise, a nest—with a single, giant _egg._ I guess it was a nesting dragon, then. Sure, why not? The nest is the size of a king-sized bed, built out of driftwood and moss and dirt.

The wood makes for a nice fire, and the egg is surprisingly tasty.

* * *

I'm about to exit one of the tunnels into the canyon when I find another set of Tributes. Or, rather, they find me.

Their ambush is pretty impressive, for a pair of amateurs. The boy appears seemingly out of nowhere, looks startled, and runs away. I give chase, which is when his partner pulls a rope from the alcove she's hidden in.

A spear trap springs, and if I were a bigger target, it would have seriously wounded me. Instead, I somersault underneath, the sharpened wooden stakes tearing through my pants and slicing into my left leg.

I don't have time to worry about that, because the male Tribute is already lunging with another spear, trying to put me down before I can go on the offensive. It doesn't work—lifetimes spent surviving ambushes have trained me pretty well. My sword is out, knocking the spear to the side, swiping out at him and just barely missing his arm.

I stand, ignoring the burning pain in my leg, and put the wall to my back. I assess my enemies; the boy is holding the spear as if he knows how to use it, and the girl is wielding a pair of knives with a frightened yet determined look on her face.

My best bet is to charge to my right, away from the girl and into range of the boy, and hope she hesitates long enough so I can dispatch him swiftly without getting a knife in my back.

I can feel the blood running down my leg. Don't want to take too long here; that'll need a bandage.

Then, the girl gasps and falls forward, an arrow in her back. In the weak light coming from the tunnel entrance, I can see Gladiola reaching for another arrow, Anthony and Helena at her back.

 _SHIT._

I don't hesitate. I run for the tunnel, feeling the wind brush my face as an arrow whistles by, then I'm outside and running downstream. Hopefully, the boy with the spear can hold them long enough that I can get away. But I know I won't get far, not with the wound in my leg.

Damn it.

A few hundred yards and I hear the cannon blast. I push myself to run faster, although the cut on my left leg is throbbing. I disappear around a cliff face and see another cave, my best opportunity to vanish and recover.

Then the knife slices into my side.

It's enough to knock me off my feet, although the knife doesn't penetrate deep. I roll over onto my other side, reaching for my katana, but Helena is already on me. She's a few years older and about thirty pounds heavier, all muscle, and has no trouble pinning my right arm to the ground with my sword. My left grabs her right and we wrestle over the knife in her hand, but she knees me in my wounded side and she manages to slip free.

Her knife is at my throat. Her eyes shine in triumph. I can feel the blade starting to press into my neck.

I try to push her away, but I can't get any leverage.

She bares her teeth in a vicious grin. I watch in slow motion as the muscles of her arm clench as she prepares to drag the knife across my throat, ending my life. A noise distracts her, and she looks up, annoyed at the disruption of her kill.

Just in time for an ax to drive itself into her chest.

She flies off me, blood spraying everywhere. Her blood stings my eyes as I struggle to raise my sword in a desperate defense from my savior and possible killer. I turn over, the pain in my side making my vision waver. I can't rise higher than my knees. I'm gasping for breath, my heart struggling to pump adrenaline through a body increasingly short of blood.

It's the boy from Seven. The one I saved in the cave.

Is my reward for saving his life going to be his ending mine?

I keep my katana up, but he runs instead to Helena. He yanks the ax from her body. A cannon blast sounds as he turns to me. "Come on, the other Careers will think that the blast is from her killing you. We don't have long before they come after her."

His words take a moment to penetrate my sluggish mind. I try to stand but I'm too dizzy. Not good. "I can't stand. Blood loss."

He thinks for a moment, then nods his head. "Give me your bags. I'll carry you." I hesitate, and he snaps at me, "We don't have time for this, let's _go!_ "

I drop my bags and he picks them up. After he's strapped them to his back and his ax to his side—still dripping with Helena's blood—he lifts me in a princess carry and runs to the cave. I struggle to stay awake, but as we disappear into the dark of the cave, my eyes close and I pass out.


	11. Chapter 10

I come slowly back to consciousness with my mind draped in a fog. My thoughts are sluggish and confused and I can't remember where I am. I'm lying on a hard surface, in the pitch black.

A rustling draws my attention and puts my nerves on edge. I reach back for my sword and a horrible burning pain in my side draws a moan from my lips. I brush my hand across the wound and feel bandages wrapped around my body, pressing over the cut. I feel the cut on my leg and find another bandage. So, I've been cared for. Yay?

Ah, yes. The boy from Seven. I wish I could remember his name, but it escapes me now, if I ever did know it. The rustling sounds again, and a flashlight clicks on, blinding me. I reach an arm up to protect my eyes.

"Oh, sorry, didn't know you were awake," he says, directing the light away from me. It shines on the cave surrounding us, illuminating a space of about fifteen square feet. I can see my sleeping bag draped over a narrow crevice that must be the entrance to this room. Our packs, his and mine, against another wall. And the boy, pushing himself to his feet and walking over to me.

I'm pretty sure he's not going to kill me now; if he'd wanted me dead, he probably would have let me die rather than waste valuable bandages keeping me alive. I take the opportunity to look him over. He's almost six feet tall, with messy brown hair, tired-looking gray eyes and a pinched, narrow face that looks hungrier than it had in the training center. He's still lanky, but I can tell it's more from hunger now than it was before. He must not be eating well in the arena.

He lifts the bandage on my side without hesitation (or even a blush of modesty), and checks the one on my leg, too. "They're healing well, no sign of infection," he declares.

"Thanks," I rasp. Then cough. He unscrews a canteen of water and lifts my head to help me sip some; even that action leaves me feeling weak and dizzy. "You didn't have to do this. I appreciate it."

"Of course I did. You saved me from that lizard thing, didn't you? It killed everyone else, and would have gotten me, easy." He gives me a sardonic look.

Ah, so he must have seen me take it down. "Well, it probably would have killed me too, so it was as much for my survival as yours."

"Maybe, maybe not. Doesn't matter, does it? My partners had a plan, but now I figure it's no good. I need another plan. I was hoping you could use the help, since we're down to only seven left, and those two Careers are still kicking."

I do some quick math in my head. When I left my cave, there were eleven dead. The three from the dragon, the two at the cave entrance, and of course, Helena—well, that about covers it, actually. "Have I been out long? It usually takes longer to whittle down the numbers than this."

"A day and a half, so we're on day seven now. I've kept a tally, too. The ones left are the two Careers, Gladiola and Anthony, the two of us, the girl from Eight, and the two from Nine."

"Not the boy from Eleven?"

"No, he died a few nights ago."

I nod my head, feeling sick. I don't even remember his name. Did I even know it? "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name," I say, embarrassed.

He smirks and says, "I figured. You didn't seem very interested in hanging with the rest of us during training."

I smile weakly. "I didn't want to know you guys. Makes the killing harder."

His face goes blank, then he lets out a sigh and his shoulders slump. "Yeah, there's that, I guess. I liked Steva and Rica, and Hari was alright too, and now they're just…"

Dead. "Yeah."

"It's too bad, Steva and Ric had a pretty great plan." We sit in silence for a bit before he asks, "Does it make it easier? Not knowing anything about everyone? Does it make the killing easier?"

I don't answer right away. When I do, it's quiet, my voice soft and light. "Sometimes. You can almost forget that they're real people, you know? They have moms and dads, brothers, sisters. Friends. Maybe a boyfriend or a girlfriend. But it never really leaves your mind. You can't escape it, and sometimes it's worse, because it creeps up on you." For some reason, my mind flashes back to the mission in the Land of Birds. When I had to present the scroll to the Hokuto, containing the body of her brother, who I'd killed.

Because I'd had no choice; it was either kill or be killed. That didn't make it any less a tragedy.

We sit in silence for a while. "I killed someone at the Cornucopia. It was the boy from Twelve, I think." He pauses. "He reminded me of my little brother."

A few minutes pass in silence before I break it. "It depends on how you look at it." I push myself into a sitting position against the wall as I work the thought around in my head. "It's…we're all here, and we have to kill everyone. Only one can survive. But…we're not here because we _want_ to be."

"Except for the Careers," he mumbles, and I wave my hand in dismissal.

"Even them. They're _here_ because they volunteered, because they've been training their whole lives for this moment. But they didn't create these Games. They're just weapons, we're all just weapons, thrown into this to kill each other because the Capitol decrees it so. That boy you killed, it wasn't really _you_ that killed him. The Capitol already said that he had to die.

"You're just the weapon they used to do it."

For all that Konoha indoctrinated and trained us from a young age, there was a surprising amount of _choice_ available to its soldiers. A sense of duty pushed us in a certain direction, but we could still choose how we fulfilled that duty, or even if we chose to ignore it. Here, there is no choice. Even the one I made, to volunteer—that wasn't a choice. The alternative was unfathomable.

"Luka," He says. "My name's Luka."

"Hello, Luka," and I smile, with genuine warmth. "My name's Celia."

I hope I don't have to kill you, I think.

* * *

It's another day before I feel well enough to get back to the Games. My wounds have scabbed over, and though the cut in my side is almost completely healed—that medicine in my pack is downright _miraculous—_ itstill hurts if I move too fast or stretch too much. Still, I resolve to take it as easy as possible for the foreseeable future.

"You said something about a plan, earlier?"

"Huh?" His brow furrows in confusion before he remembers. "Oh yeah, I did say something about that, didn't I?" We finish packing up our things. I take my bag, and Luka takes his plus the gym bag with the food. "Well, Steva and Rica were both from Three. That's the District with all the know-it-alls, right?"

"All the Capitol's advanced technology is made and invented there, for the most part."

"Right. Well, they wanted to blow up the dam. Flood the arena, you know? Kill off pretty much everyone else. But I don't know how they figured they could do it."

The idea almost makes me freeze midstep. I'm incredulous. They wanted to _blow up_ the dam? That's…wait. "The girl who died before the Games even started. She was killed by the landmines."

His eyebrows jump as he realizes what that means. "Ah, right! That would probably do it. But they're deactivated, right?"

"If he's from Three, I bet he'd be able to reactivate them." I bet I could figure it out.

I'm _really good_ with explosives.

* * *

We decide to wait until nighttime to try and recover the landmines. It's not ideal—there's a mostly-full moon in the sky, providing enough illumination to easily see us. But by my guess (which is damn good), it's about 2 in the morning, so we're probably in the best shape we could be in.

I still have the shovel in my pack, and Luka has a pickaxe he was carrying for one of his former partners, and between us we're able to dig up four landmines without any trouble. By that time, the sky's a faded gray, with sunlight about to break through to the east.

"You think four's enough?" Luka pants, wiping sweat from his brow.

"It'll have to be," I say. "Probably have to use one to blow a hole in the dam. Three more should weaken it enough to break on its own, if they don't do the job right away."

We walk over to the river and rinse off our tools. Luka packs three of the mines into his bag, since they're moderately heavy and he doesn't have much to carry anyway. I fiddle with the one in my hands, carefully avoiding touching anything that I'm sure will turn it live. Inside's a white clay-like substance, and not a lot of it—only about two inches square and a half inch thick. Of course, I recognize it. Which is why I'm _very careful_ with the electrical components.

You don't get a second chance with C4.

"I think I have it," I turn to Luka, which is why I see the Tribute. Luka sees my face, and turns to confront an enemy, pulling his ax from his side and bringing it up. It's swift, and smooth, and even a little impressive.

The javelin pierces him through his right lung, severing a strap of his pack and throwing him to his back. I reach for my sword—only, it's back with my pack. I'd taken it off when we were digging, because it kept getting in my way. All I have in my hands is the mine.

The three of them—the surviving Tributes from Eight and Nine—are running towards me, swords in their hands. How did so many escape the river? Maybe they were gifts from sponsors. It doesn't really matter, though. I might be able to get to my katana in time, might be able to fight them off...but probably not.

But, well. Am I Shikako Nara, or not? Sword or no, chakra or no, I have a block of C4 in my hands. I'm plenty deadly.

Yank a wire, press the reset button. A light blinks. Secure the casing. Then, like a Frisbee, I hurl it at the rushing Tributes. I can't make out their faces, but when the mine lands, upside-down, it doesn't matter. A landmine is designed to explode underground, its energy mostly being redirected straight upward. It's what kills the person stepping on it and barely scratches the one standing a foot away. All of that energy, without any earth to direct and absorb it, is released in every direction. And C4 has a _lot_ of energy.

They're torn to shreds in the ensuing explosion.

As the detritus rains down around me, I drag myself to Luka. My equilibrium is thrown off, but aside from a few bruises and the coppery taste of someone else's blood on my lips, I'm in pretty decent shape.

I wish I could say the same for Luka.

The javelin pins him to the ground like a grisly butterfly. I could remove it, but it would just accelerate the inevitable at this point. Red pools underneath him, and his hacking coughs are wet and bloody. I can tell from the look in his eyes that he knows he's a goner. So I do what I can for him. I grab his hand and watch as the light fades from his eyes, just like I've done dozens, hundreds of times before.

I sit with him as Luka, a boy from District Seven, breathes his last.

I wait until I hear the cannon marking his death, then I close his eyes. I take his backpack and pull back to the cliff, waiting for the hovercraft to take him away. Without him, I'd be dead, my blood staining the ground from Helena's knife just like his does now.

Such a waste. All of it, a waste.

The best thing I can do to honor his memory is end these damn Games. So, every spare minute of life I have left, I will dedicate to ending this vicious, malevolent regime.

The Girl on Fire is still five years away—but five years is plenty of time to collect enough kindling to ensure a healthy, cleansing blaze.


	12. Chapter 11

Sometime between Luka's death and nightfall, there's another cannon blast. I know before the anthem sounds in the night sky that it's Gladiola who's dead. Her picture starts off the evening recap, followed by Luka, and the Tributes from Eight and Nine I blew up with the mine.

That leaves Anthony and me.

I'm not really surprised. That was in line with my read of him from the beginning. Where other Tributes seemed determined and capable, and other Careers certainly seemed eager and bloodthirsty, there's something about Anthony that screams tenacity and ruthlessness. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd jumped Gladiola when her back was turned, once he counted the cannon blasts, and knew how many of us were left.

I suppose most everyone at home is happy, since no matter what, this is going to be a District Four win. That means a feast, supplemental supplies given out throughout the year, and of course, pride. It always struck me, too, how happy everyone was in the Victor's district to welcome the Victor home, and how it must feel to the family of the other Tribute to see their friends and neighbors cheering and celebrating while they mourn the passing of a child.

Anthony's family is probably waiting with baited breath for him to finish me off and come home to them. I'll be sorry to let them down, but that's just how it is.

I make camp in an alcove upstream, near the dam, after trapping the area liberally and disguising my camp with brush and rocks. A few hours in, I wake up, jolted awake by a noise. Or rather, the absence of noise, as it turns out—the water has stopped flowing from the dam. The silence is eerie, only the drip-drip of the last drops from the pipes alongside the rapid beating of my heart. I strain my ears to listen for anything, a pebble skittering across the ground, something (or someone) splashing in the water, footfalls heading in my direction, but there's nothing.

I guess this is the Capitol's way of signaling the end of our free run of the arena. Already, I can see the water level of the river dropping, exposing stone and underwater plants and a few fish flopping onto dry land.

Well, if the confrontation is coming soon, it's best for it to be on my terms. I spend the rest of the night, under the illumination of the full moon, setting my final trap.

The first rays of sunshine paint the sky a gorgeous mix of reds and oranges and gold. I watch the clouds swim past, for a moment free from the Games and their merciless slaughter. It's relaxing. Calming. Liberating.

I spend the rest of the morning climbing the Cliffside next to the dam, finishing up my trap. Trapping was never my strongest skill, but Naruto and Sasuke were always pretty decent, so I picked up a few tricks from them. And the availability of a plethora of damp, slightly-rusted weaponry from the dried up riverbed didn't hurt.

It is high noon when Anthony appears. He strides up the river bank, determined and relatively care-free. Not arrogant, but self-assured, confident in the ultimate outcome of our fight. I see a sword strapped to his thigh, another hilt over his shoulder, a quiver of arrows peeking over his other shoulder, and Gladiola's bow draped over his chest. His clothes are ratty and tattered, exposing hard muscle on his chest and arms (probably to the delight of the viewers at home).

He runs a hand through his windswept hair and meets my eyes as I stand in the middle of the ground between the river and the cliffside. In contrast to his well-armed physique, I have only a single katana strapped to my back and a pair of knives at my waist. We stand there, appraising each other, for several moments.

I half expect a tumbleweed to roll between us, it's almost that clichéd.

"I'm surprised you made it this far," He says, breaking the silence. "Would've figured you'd have bought it before now."

"It's the dragon," I reply sardonically. "You slay one, and you consume its strength."

He laughs. "Right, a dragon. I guess I shouldn't be too skeptical, should I? I admit, I was surprised at how you performed at the beginning. But making people underestimate you is a good strategy in these Games."

"You probably would have learned that if you'd bothered to listen to Finnick. He was a great resource you ignored."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed. "That pretty boy? It's a joke with the others, you know, what he gets up to. More interested in being a playboy in the Capitol than mentoring, anyway."

I smirk at him. "Didn't you just say something about underestimating people? I've always heard that surprise is just failing to recognize something you saw all along. Maybe if you spent a little more time observing others and a little less being amazed at your own genius, you'd've made sure I died when Helena chased me down. Because, buddy, that was the best chance you had, and you blew it."

I didn't even wait for what I'm sure would have been a scathing retort, pulling out my sword and swinging it down to the ground with a solid _thwack_. The rope I'd buried and obscured in the dirt snapped, and the rock it had been holding fell on the cliff right over where Anthony was standing. But it didn't fall on him.

It fell on the landmine I'd placed just below it.

The explosion sent chunks of jagged rock flying, and bigger pieces tumbling to the ground, but the worst part was the rain of burning kerosene from the gallon I'd salvaged several days ago. Anthony dives to the side, avoiding most of it, but the liquid fire splashes on his right arm and leg and the side of his face. He shrieks in agony as he scrambles away from the rain of burning rocks towards the damp mud of the riverbed.

And his left foot lands right in one of the improvised traps I'd set up.

The trap snaps shut, knife blades digging into the flesh of his calf. He tumbles into the riverbed, rolling over and over, the flames going out as mud covers his agonized body. Anthony rolls to a stop at the bottom, splashing in the few remaining puddles, moaning in pain as he tries to pry himself free of the trap. He's covered in singed hair, burned skin, river muck and blood.

I step up to the edge of the riverbed, and he meets my eyes as he struggles to free himself. I reach down to the last trap I'd set, picking up a length of rope and pulling it free. His eyes follow along its length to where it disappears in one of the pipes that had, until last night, been gushing water to feed the river. I pull it, and the last two landmines I have detonate against the barrier holding back billions of gallons of water.

A burst of flames, rubble and twisted pipes is swarmed immediately by a surge of water flooding into the river bed. I watch as Anthony struggles, trying to pull himself up and away from the flood rushing towards him, but even if he manages that much, the trap is secured to rocks by a thickly braided length of rope that he'll struggle, in his wounded state, to cut through before he drowns.

I step away as his body disappears under the rushing water. As it gushes through the hole in the dam, I see the force of the water tear bits of rock and concrete free, enlarging the hole and increasing the gush of water. I don my climbing equipment and climb up, up, up as the water breaks the banks and floods the open ground. When the dam finally collapses, I'm sitting at the top of the cliff. I barely catch the spray of the water against the rocks.

The cannon blast is, at this point, fairly anticlimactic. "Oh, damn," I mutter to myself. "I said 'you blew it,' didn't I? That could have been something clever." Ah, well.

* * *

Once it's announced that I've won, a hovercraft flies in and picks me up. In the belly of the aircraft, medics catalogue my various wounds and scars, and by the time they finish, we're arriving at a hospital in the Capitol. A team of doctors receives me and I'm put under so they can buff out my scars and wounds. When I next wake up, I'm lying in a bed in a dark hospital room.

I do a quick look over of my body. There are no signs of any of my cuts or scrapes from the arena, and even the various little nicks and scars accrued from an active childhood are gone, vanished like they'd never existed. I'm impressed by the work done, but I can't help but sneer at the casual ease they put into relatively unimportant cosmetic adjustments while people in the Districts have to make do with herbal remedies and old wives' tales.

Ah, well. Nothing to be done about that right now.

I spend some time in the bathroom, grabbing a quick shower to rinse off the layer of the grime from the arena that still feels caked in my pores. There aren't any real clothes in my room, so instead of my backless hospital gown, I improvise a toga using my bed sheet, which is big enough to wrap around my body several times and do a decent job protecting my modesty. I can't find shoes, so I have to do without, but I don't let the cold floor bother me.

Outside my door is, to my surprise, a Peacekeeper. We stare at each other (through his visor, which hides his face). "Back in your room," he orders.

I roll my eyes. "No."

He's taken aback by my refusal and reaches out for my arm, but I smack his hand away. He bristles, his other hand resting on the butt of the sidearm on his belt, but before he does anything I say, "I'm stretching my legs and getting something to eat. You can come with me, or try to stop me, but I doubt anyone would be impressed if you bruise up the newly-named Victor."

He's obviously perturbed by my statement, but when I walk past him, he follows. I think he's talking to someone via communicator, but whoever it is doesn't tell him to do anything else, so he keeps pace with me. Not the hardest task, given how short I am.

We walk down halls empty of anyone save the occasional orderly or janitor. The hospital is eerily quiet, in contrast to what I imagine must be a lively atmosphere during the day. I pass a clock that tells me it's about 2:30 in the morning. "What did you do to get stuck with the night shift?"

My guard doesn't answer immediately, but after a minute of silence says, "Lost a bet."

I chuckle. "What were you betting on?"

"Geonosis."

Ah. And that was my first kill, too. Awkward. "Uh…sorry about that."

I can hear a sigh from his helmet. "Could have been worse. Friend of mine bet a thousand on Nero. That didn't go any better for her."

"Still not as bad a deal as Nero got. You could point that out to her. Though, at least, he got training before he volunteered."

That quiets him down for a bit, until we arrive at the cafeteria. There's a grilling station where you can enter your food order, as well as a fully-stocked buffet and drink dispenser. As I take it in, a server replaces a nearly-full tray of some fluorescent orange dish with a fresh one. I think about where that food's going to end up.

The dumpster, most likely. Meanwhile, children go hungry back in Four.

I grab a plate. "You may as well take some too, if you're hungry. What's your name?"

He hesitates before answering with a simple, "Byron."

It's probably against some regulation, but he doesn't say anything. We take some food and find a table next to the window. I stare at his visor, wondering if he's going to pull a Kakashi and I'll look down to see his plate already empty, when he reaches up and removes his helmet altogether. He's handsome enough, in a rugged sort of way, with a prominent jawline, close-cropped black hair, and dark brown eyes.

We eat quietly for a while. I enjoy a couple of roasted chicken legs and mashed potatoes thick with gravy. He has some orange and purple goop. I assume it's some sort of food—he's eating it, anyway.

"You don't just _get_ training. It's not cheap."

I look up, but he's still focused on his plate. I wait for him to expand on what he's saying, but he doesn't. "How so?"

He puts his fork down and looks out the window. Lights from buildings dotting the skyline break the pitch black night. "The academies are expensive. Families go heavily into debt to train their children for the arena. If you win, your family can pay off the debt. But most don't."

I take a bite of mashed potatoes. "I don't think we have much of an academy in Four. We don't produce a lot of Careers."

He shrugs his broad shoulders. "Aside from Finnick Odair, Four hasn't had many winners recently. The well dries up pretty quickly when there's no money to be made."

"So what happens to the families of Tributes who don't make it?"

He pushes his plate away. There's a twist to his mouth that betrays his irritation. Maybe he's getting tired of my questions—or of the answers. A moment passes as he stares outside again, his eyes following a hovercraft flying in the sky, its warning lights blinking against the night sky. "If you join the Peacekeepers, your debts are forgiven. Since the Capitol pretty much owns the academies, that takes care of any payments your family isn't able to make."

I take a deep breath. That's…something, alright. "So, if your child dies in the arena, you give another to the Peacekeepers."

He shrugs again. "Not just that. If you aren't picked to volunteer, you still have the debt. That's why I'm here." His lips twist in a sardonic grin. "I wasn't good enough to volunteer. So I joined the Peacekeepers. And my younger brother's in the academy now. He's better than I was, so he'll probably be chosen to volunteer, when he's older. I'll get to cheer him on, as he kills for the glory of the Capitol."

There's something in his voice, something cynical, that tells me he's less than thrilled with his lot in life. I take note of this—how many Peacekeepers have a similar story? How many have a tarnished view of their situations?

War's coming. This could be a critical weakness in my enemies' forces. It certainly bears watching, at least.


	13. Chapter 12

We finish eating and head back to my room. Byron returns to standing guard outside my door, and I climb back into bed and try to get back to sleep. Thoughts bounce around in my mind, mostly with this new information about the composition of the Peacekeepers. Everyone in the Districts assumes that the Peacekeepers come from the Capitol, but given what I've seen of the city and the luxury even the lower classes live in, I can't imagine a lot would be willing to sign up for even the best life to be had in the Districts.

If a lot of Peacekeepers are as disgruntled as Byron, perhaps that's something I can work with. When the force you rely on to oppress your people is filled with people who sympathize with those people, you're in for a bad time. Just ask Gato.

When I wake up several hours later, Mags is sitting next to my bed, knitting something with dexterous fingers belying her advanced age. I watch the click-click of the knitting needles, passing a few minutes thinking of how they'd perform as weapons. I think I could compensate for their size enough to throw them like senbon. The ends don't seem sharp enough to pierce skin well, so I'd be best served aiming for eyes. The hooks on the ends would make extracting them difficult.

Mags looks up and meets my eyes, hers lighting in happiness. She grasps my hand in hers and smiles in congratulations. "Thanks, Mags. I'm glad to be out."

She pats my hand and picks up her knitting. She lifts it up and I laugh at what she's done: it's a sweater, with the words "70th Victor" in golden yellow on dark blue. It's actually very nicely done. "Have you done these before?" She nods and holds her hands up, extending nine of her fingers and then patting the sweater. This is her ninth, then. "It's wonderful. Thanks, Mags."

She grins and returns to her knitting, and I watch the needles as she loops yarn over and over. She's remarkably fast; before I know it, she's finished and I watch, bemused, as she spreads it out over my body.

So of course, it's a great moment for Finnick to stroll in. "Oh good, you have one, too! We can all match on your tour," he needles, smirk settling naturally on his face as the door swings shut behind him. Just past the open door, I make out the form of a Peacekeeper and wonder, briefly, if it's normal to keep one on guard outside a Victor's room.

Mags hands Finnick a knitted cap, which he pulls over his hair without hesitation. He strikes a pose and asks, "How do I look?"

"Like a twelve year old, which is appropriate, since that's about how mature you are," I reply. He staggers back as though wounded, making me laugh. It's my first laugh since I left the arena, and it feels good. I've gotten good at pushing away the pain and horror of the acts I have to commit to survive over my various lifetimes, but it's always easier if I can feel something genuine their place.

Finnick plops himself down on one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs in my room. "Congratulations, by the way," he says, almost flippantly. "Especially at the end. It made for a great broadcast."

There's a subtle difference in his tone from his usual brash overconfidence. It's almost questioning, with maybe a hint of trepidation? And a bit of reproach, too, I think. "Well, the audience always loves a big finish. I could have just stabbed him with my sword, but that's not what that was all about."

"Then what was it all about? Because unless I'm mistaken, you just displayed knowledge of how to work electronics and explosives that you shouldn't have."

Well, he has that much right. There's no explanation as to how Celia Sawyer should know how to bypass the radio receivers and hotwire a landmine. But Mags is giving Finnick a stern look and tapping her lips, and Finnick is grimacing and nodding, so I'm spared that line of questioning—at least, for now.

I spend a few days in the hospital bed, in spite of a seeming lack of need of it. And a Peacekeeper is always on guard, so I'm not able to do much aside from sleep and watch Capitol programming on the projection TV. It seems they're replaying a marathon of old Hunger Games in consecutive order leading up to my big reveal and interview with Caesar Flickerman. There are a few Games conspicuous by their absence—most noticeable among them, the second Quarter Quell.

But on nights, Byron is still on watch. He doesn't talk much after our first night together, but there's not a lot for us to say to each other. He does escort me to the cafeteria for late night snacks, and I'm able to pry out of him some information on his unit. It's a battalion, 250 men and women, with its assigned precinct including the hospital and Tributes' tower. That sounds like an important assignment, but apparently it's considered less desirable because they're the ones escorting the Tributes everywhere. It's a lot more work than any other assignment.

There are ten full battalions garrisoned in the city, with another five on the outskirts, and the rest of the Capitol's forces (not including those on active duty in the Districts) in District Two at some place called Alpha Command, but the soldiers call the Molehill. That leads me to believe that it's underground, and apparently a very large complex. Given Two's location in the Rockies, it's probably deep inside a mountain—or several.

The information I gather from him is definitely useful and something to keep in mind for the future.

Eventually, though, I'm thrown back into the flaky hands of the Triplets—in all their Red, Blue, and Yellow glory—and, of course, dressed to the nines courtesy of Reva, who greets me with kiss on the cheek and a warm smile before ushering me into my dress for the Victor's Ceremony.

Once I'm made up and draped in cloth and jewelry, I'm dragged to the mirror where I can admire myself. My blonde hair looks wet, swept away from my face and intertwined with blue and green ribbons, combining with my pale face for a particularly striking effect. My dress is made of disparate pieces of cloth that merge together and reflect the light, greens and blues and turquoise clinging to my body almost indecently. My legs are bare from just above my knee, all the way to my feet.

The result is magnificent. I am a siren—one of those beautiful, deadly women whispered about on the docks, rumored to lure seamen to their ends with their haunting melodies. Entrancing and inviting, but so, so deadly.

"I love it."

A serene smile spreads on Reva's face. "I knew you would."

When I rise from below the stage for my interview, the crowd erupts in roaring applause. I am serenity and grace, favoring them with a slight smile as I play up my otherworldly appearance. Caesar Flickerman is standing ready, announcing my arrival with his own endearing aplomb. I cross to where he stands before our seats, allow him to take my hand and kiss it like a gentleman, and lower myself to the chair as the applause slowly dies down.

Once the crowd has quieted enough, Caesar turns to me. "Celia! I must say, that was one of the more entertaining Games I've ever seen. Congratulations on your victory!"

My lips twitch upwards, almost involuntarily. In spite of myself, I find myself liking this little man. He's boisterous and showy, but it doesn't feel disingenuous. I feel like Caesar Flickerman is exactly who he appears to be—bombastic, energetic, and fun. If he hadn't been headlining the Hunger Games, I'd have nothing bad to say about him. Well, aside from his fashion sense—dressed in vibrant reds with neon green gloves, his golden hair coiffed upwards and twirled on top, he looks like one of Santa's elves.

And then the highlight show starts, and I have to stop myself several times from reaching over and strangling him. It starts with a brief recap of the Reaping, featuring me standing defiantly in front of Annie—though they've used computers to make me look scared instead of enraged. The chariots, the preliminary scores, rising through the tubes to find ourselves in a canyon, building the tension as the clock winds down to zero. The crowd oohs and ahs as I slice through the other children at the Cornucopia, laughs as Titus and I throw the excess supplies in the river, gasps when they replay my jumping off the side of the cave onto the back of the dragon.

They don't only show highlights of me; there's a good bit where the remaining Careers ambush a pair of Tributes and appropriate their supplies, and the fight between Titus and Anthony that leaves Titus bleeding his life away into the river. A few tears fall as I watch his body slide off a waterfall.

There's the two Tributes from Three discussing the landmines and their idea of flooding the arena, Luka saving me and treating my wounds, our digging up the landmines, my holding his hand as he dies. They flash to Anthony, who doesn't hesitate once he hears Luka's cannon blast before shoving a knife into Gladiola's back.

Then, they draw out the end. Me, setting my traps. Anthony, readying his weapons. Then, the actual fight, which is rather anticlimactic in my opinion, but the crowd loves it. Once the voice announces my victory in the 70th Hunger Games, the video fades out to show me—sitting on the stage with Caesar.

The cheering subsides, and Caesar opens our interview. "Well, Celia," he says, "Welcome back!"

The crowd cheers again. I smile at them, though behind the smile I'm gritting my teeth. "Thank you, Caesar. I'm glad to be back."

"And we're glad to have you back, right folks?" He grins at the roaring audience. When they've settled back down, he turns back to me. "Now, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but after your pronouncement on this stage before the Games, I was a little surprised to see you succeed to the level you achieved. To what do you attribute your victory at these games?"

I clench my hands together to distract me from the aching in my stomach. It's silly—I've fought enemies to the death, killed everyone I had to do to survive over my many disparate lifetimes, and stage fright still threatens to paralyze me. "The last time we were here, I told you I was good at killing. I think everyone here can tell that, right?" I look to the crowd, and it erupts in cheers and laughter. "When you're playing the Games, you can sometimes forget what they are. Because you're _playing_ them. But the Games aren't really _games_ , Caesar. They're life or death. And if you screw around and lose, you don't get another go in the next round."

He nods thoughtfully and says, "That's certainly true, Celia. We all remember what happened to Helena, don't we, folks?" A few people in the crowd laugh or whistle in appreciation of the memory.

"Right. She played it like a game, and she lost because of it. I was never interested in playing a game. I just wanted to end it and go home. And in order to do that, I had to kill everyone else before they could kill me."

The interview goes on. Caesar asks me about Luka, and Titus, and we talk about the dragon and throwing the landmine. The last one is something I have to be careful about; there's little reason why an orphan in District Four would know enough about explosives to reactivate a dead landmine.

"It's amazing what you can pick up when no one's paying attention," I hedge. "One of my favorite things to do is take things apart to see how they work. Usually, it's something like a boat rudder, or steering mechanism, but occasionally you get something more mechanical. A broken conveyor or canning machine in a factory. Once, I was inside one when they turned the machine on, and I got to see how the machines are turned on, and, well, it wasn't hard to figure out how to work around the ones in the landmines."

It's not a completely unbelievable explanation, and it's even partially true—though not for the reasons I say. People don't tend to notice young orphan children in canning plants, probably because they don't care much, and discarded machines beyond repair are still a gold mine of useful electronics and mechanical pieces—mostly to sell for scrap.

Caesar blinks and turns a comically impressed look on the audience. "My dear, it's a good thing you weren't born in District Three, or you might have taken over Panem by now!" That gets a good laugh out of the audience, and I even laugh, although inside I'm thinking, if only.

It seems about time to wrap it up, as the national anthem starts building. Caesar stands and helps me up—as gorgeous as my dress is, it's not particularly conducive to a lot of movement—and announces as the anthem culminates, "Ladies and Gentleman, Celia Sawyer, your Victor of the Seventieth Hunger Games!"

I smile and give a small bow. The music culminates, and Caesar walks me offstage to the applause of the audience. Only, instead of Finnick or Reva or even Simon, there are four Peacekeepers waiting for me.

One is standing somewhat ahead of the others, and he says, "Ms. Sawyer, come with us. President Snow wants to speak with you."

Well, shit.

* * *

Had some trouble with this one. Worked through it mostly by ignoring it.


	14. Chapter 13

This chapter is dedicated to Aplin, whose reviews inspired me to power through this conversation down here and finish this fucking chapter! And to Vira, who convinced me that it could be a TON better. I'm pretty happy with it!

* * *

The car ride to the President's mansion was tense. I was seated in the back seat, with two Peacekeepers on either side of me, and two on the rear-facing seat in front of me. The car was bracketed in front and back by troop transports—I wondered briefly if Byron was in one of them—giving me the distinct impression I was in some sort of trouble.

But I hadn't spent all those years as a ninja, including several months under Ibiki's tutelage, without gaining an understanding of interrogation techniques. This is meant to throw me off, to unsettle me, keep me off balance, for whatever comes next. Following a particularly traumatic experience like winning the Hunger Games, this treatment would be perfect to ensure a malleable Victor for whatever purpose he or she is to be turned to.

And, of course, I'm reminded of what I said to Finnick—no one ever wins the Hunger Games.

Except the Capitol.

The Peacekeepers in the car with me don't move their heads, staring straight ahead like robots up until we pull into the circular drive of the President's Mansion. The door is pulled open, and I'm pushed out, and then guided inside with a hand gripping my shoulder tightly. A dozen of them form up around me, my escort to meet the President.

Their attempts to keep me scared and timid are crude but undoubtedly effective. As we walk down hallways full of ostentatious works of art and displays of wealth and power, I feel like a naughty child being taken to the principal's office for a punishment. Of course, by the amount of time I've spent living different lives, I'm hundreds of years past the point where this would work on me. But there's no way for Snow to know that, is there?

Of course, that begs the question— _should_ he know it?

There are pros to having Snow continue to underestimate me. If he sees me as pliable and unthreatening, I'll have less scrutiny placed upon me and more freedom of movement. It's enticing, and certainly the obvious path for me to take…had I not made sure every step of the way how very much opposite of meek and afraid I am.

Oops.

Well, can't do that. The other extreme is right out, too—because what kind of moron would I have to be to make sure Snow sees me as dangerous? I wouldn't last a month before an 'unfortunate accident' took me out. I probably wouldn't even survive my Victory Tour; an unfortunate train derailment, perhaps, or some sort of poison, if they wanted subtlety.

We're at a pair of double doors, guarded on either side by Peacekeepers. Without a word (that I can hear), the two of them open the doors and I'm pushed into an office big enough to hold the Home back in Four with enough space left over to walk around outside. My escort retreats and the doors slam shut behind me.

I stare across the great open space before me to a large desk, behind which sits President Snow. He's looking over some paperwork through a pair of glasses that gives him a grandfatherly air. I can't help but think that it would come off more friendly if he wasn't the despotic ruler of a vicious regime—but maybe that's the point. Snow is so secure in his power that he doesn't _have to_ lord it over someone to make it evident.

He motions to a chair in front of his desk and says, "Welcome, Celia. Please, take a seat," and goes back to reviewing his paperwork.

I slowly move forward, the distance giving me a few moments to furtively consider my options. So, I can't make him see me as someone too strong to control, and he'll see through any façade I put up to appear weak and malleable. The only option I have is naïveté—to think I've won, and allow Snow to disabuse me of the notion. To allow myself to be cowed by his subtle threats and demands.

I come to the chair and take a seat. Snow ignores me as he focuses on whatever it is he's reviewing. It could be a drawing from his granddaughter for all I know; its purpose is to express his importance and make me uncomfortable. I take the opportunity to study him up close for the first time.

The man who rules Panem is quite obviously in his early seventies. He's kept himself in good shape; there's no stoop to his shoulders, no weariness in the faint wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, his hands are steady and his eyes clear. Underneath the pervasive odor wafting from the rose in his lapel, there's a hint of a medicinal scent, perhaps belying his healthy appearance. But still more subtle is the faint, almost covered up trace of blood. I almost miss it, but it's something I remember well enough that the tiniest bit will draw my attention like a shark.

Snow puts down his work and, finally, turns his sharp gaze on me. I meet him unflinchingly, though I make an effort to appear a little intimidated. "I want to offer you my congratulations, Ms. Sawyer, on your victory in the Hunger Games. Your swordsmanship, especially. I don't know that I'm familiar with that style."

I nod in acknowledgement. "Thank you, sir. "

"But I was most impressed with your explanation of how you reactivated the mines," He continues. He stands and presses a button on his desk, and a holovid pops up, a close up of my fingers yanking out the radio receiver and reactivating the mine. He walks around his desk, passing behind me as I watch myself fling the bomb, watch as it lands and blows people to smithereens. "Bypassing the automated control and resetting the mine is the sort of thing I'd expect a Tribute from Three to manage. But an orphan girl, with little education, working the electronics as though she'd built it herself? My dear, you can understand if I find your story about old factory machinery to be difficult to believe."

I swallow, not entirely faking my nervousness. I hadn't thought of how it would appear, my quick reactions and fast fingers, evident of more than a passing understanding. "You'd be amazed what you might learn when you pay attention to what's going on around you. Anthony never learned that, which is why he's dead and I'm not," I respond carefully. It's the best I can do; I doubt I could make up a more convincing lie, so I don't bother.

He's far from satisfied with my answer, and I bet he'll be making his own inquiries, but I doubt he'll find anything. After all, there's nothing to find. In this world, I'm only a teenage girl, and not the one who 'provided a spark that, left unattended, may grow into an inferno that destroys Panem.'

He stands behind me now, resting his hands on the back of my chair. I can feel his breath, sickeningly sweet with the metallic tang of blood as he speaks into my ear. "Indeed, Ms. Sawyer. You have proven yourself very resourceful. Blowing up the dam, for instance—I don't know if the Gamekeepers will ever forgive you for ruining their arena. Tourists won't be able to visit the sites of your fights, or witness reenactments of your defeat of the dragon. My granddaughter will be particularly upset. She likes you very much, Ms. Sawyer."

I lean forward, away from him. "I'm sorry, sir. I just wanted to entertain people."

His hand comes to rest on my shoulder. I flinch involuntarily at the contact, half-expecting his hands to be scaly like a snake's. Instead, they're smooth, unnaturally so—but cold as ice. I can almost feel the warmth being leeched from my body. "Of course you did, Ms. Sawyer. But there's a price to be paid for all things. Your fellow Tributes have paid their price, haven't they? But you…" he lets go, finally, and paces back behind his desk. "There's a price to be paid for victory, as well. And if you don't pay it...others will have to foot the bill."

"You're saying that I'll have to... _repay_...the Capitol for my being a Tribute? And what would that entail? Sir?" I add, letting a bit of genuine anger seep through.

"Oh, I'm sure we can come up with something to balance the scales a bit. Allow me to worry about that, Ms. Sawyer. That will be all for now. Again, congratulations on your victory." His eyes flick back once more, meeting my own, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "And, do give my regards to Ms. Cresta. It's so… _wonderful_ to see someone so dedicated to protecting their loved ones."

It doesn't take a Nara to put two and two together here. If I don't do what he wants, Annie will suffer for it. I nod my understanding, my eyes never leaving his.

His are cold and calculating, like several I've seen before. But I didn't cower in the face of certain death with Orochimaru, or Voldemort, or Jack Slash, and with them, death was far from the worst thing that could happen to you. Of course, I didn't last very long in any of those lives…so maybe there were some things I could improve upon.

The creak of the doors opening behind me echo throughout the room, signaling that our time together is over. I stand up, give a cursory nod to the President, and am halfway across the room when President Snow's voice jolts me to a stop. "Ms. Sawyer, you'll be sixteen in several months, will you not?"

The question throws me off. Why would he ask me my age? "In nine months, sir."

He nods and scribbles a note to himself. "Very good. I shall look forward to watching you mentor next year, then. Give my regards to Mr. Odair, and enjoy your tour."

I return to the Peacekeepers, and they escort me back to the Tributes' Tower. The entire time, I'm thinking over the entire conversation. There's the passive threat made against Annie—undoubtedly a reminder that the Capitol can still hurt me through my friends—and the suspicions about my skill with explosive devices. But most worrying is what Snow means by 'repaying the Capitol.' What could that possibly mean?

* * *

The rest of my stay in the Capitol is a repetitive series of boisterous parties that blur together in a haze of awfulness. Not that they were upsetting or offensive, as much as they were so dull. Countless throngs of laughing people in ridiculous outfits, makeup, tattoos, and hairstyles. Fireworks, food, dancing. Every single party, an orgy of decadence and excess. I couldn't even get too upset about it; none of these people had ever wanted for anything, be it food, shelter, warmth, or love. They had no concept of life anywhere else, of the people living in hopeless poverty, working themselves to the bone to supply their families with meager earnings. Subject to the whims of corrupt Governors and brutal Peacekeepers.

I feel myself pitying them, just a bit.

Eventually, one morning, I wake to learn that the parties are over for now—thank _God_ —and that we're moving on to the tour. A series of grand dinners in each District, counting down from Twelve to One, and leaving Four to the end, where a huge feast will be enjoyed by the entire District at the Capitol's expense, along with increases in the monthly supplies of food and fuel to everyone.

Then we arrive in Twelve, and I'm reminded of how awful life is for so many in the outlying Districts. In Four, everyone generally has enough to eat—cases like the greedy Janny aside—and people's homes are sturdy and weather-proof, if small and cramped. Here in Twelve, there are far too many gaunt faces and children sick from malnourishment. Everyone standing in the town square, almost to a man, is worn-down and tired, with many sporting that empty-eyed stare of someone who has lost all hope that things can be better.

The families of the fallen Tributes—neither of whom I killed, thankfully—watch with eyes full of grief as I, bedecked in another of Reva's gorgeous creations, read my lines off the card Simon gave me. Greatness of the Games, Glory of the Capitol, blah, blah, blah.

The crowd goes mild.

A few hints of applause, here and there, where people feel obligated to recognize that I'm done talking. The Mayor takes over, but I'm not paying any attention. There's a little girl glaring at me, near the back, with long black hair braided down over her shoulder. She turns away once I'm done, pulling along a small blonde child with the back of her shirt untucked.

I bet those are the Everdeens.

They look thin, but not starvation-thin. From what I remember of the books, their father must have died recently—less than a year ago. That twelve year old girl is, right now, responsible for the survival of her family, for keeping them fed and earning enough money to buy fuel and clothe and whatever else they need. Later, she will be the Albatross that leads this country into a better future.

Provided some damn fool doesn't kill her first.

The dinner passes, but my mind is elsewhere. We're to spend the night in the Mayor's House, Finnick, Mags, Reva, the Triplets, Simon, and me, but there's no room for my Peacekeeper escort, who lodge either in the local barracks or the train—I don't care which, because their overbearing presence is starting to give me a headache.

When I'm finally alone, I throw off my dress and pull on the more comfortable shorts and blouse of a similar style to what I wear in Four, though made of far superior material. I open the window and watch as clouds glide past the crescent moon and glittering star-filled sky. For a moment, I lose myself in memories of other skies and days and nights spent pretending I had no cares in the world.

I don't know how long it takes before I catch sight of a shadow moving across the ground towards the back door. I squint, and sure enough, it's Katniss Everdeen, ghosting along with nary a sound. To my ninja-trained senses, even, she's difficult to hear. She knocks on the door, and after a few seconds, it opens. A matronly woman steps out, and they start haggling over something before they come to a reasonable price and Katniss' bag is exchanged for a smaller bag. She opens it and counts the coins before nodding her head and depositing it in the satchel that hangs at her side.

On a whim, I sneak out my window and follow her out into the night. The night is pleasant enough that I my clothes are fine, and my shoes make no sound as I step carefully along a street or so back. We pass the more well-to-do houses of the merchants who live around the village square, and venture into the more squalid surroundings of the Seam. It smells of coal dust and animals, and there's refuse strewn about alongside the homes and alleys.

Katniss is fiddling with her satchel, and isn't paying enough attention to where she's going, because she doesn't notice the echoes of boot steps coming closer that can only be from Peacekeepers patrolling the street in front of her.


	15. Chapter 14

Short one, but I struggled a bit in a few minor places with wording and decided, fuck it. Enjoy!

* * *

I'm not sure what would happen if those patrolling Peacekeepers find Katniss after curfew. I'm not even sure there is a curfew here, but there is in Four, which is a Career District, so I don't want to risk it. I have no idea if these Peacekeepers are as lax as they were in the book, or if they'd take her into custody and punish her being out so late, but it isn't something I want to risk.

I consider my options, and I come up with the one I think has the biggest chance to work. I ghost up to her, making no noise, and clamp my hand over her mouth and pulle her behind a rubbish pile. She's stunned at first and just starts fighting when I whisper in her ear, "Peacekeepers." She goes still, and I remove my hand from her mouth just as the Peacekeepers walk past the alley.

We stand still behind the trash until the sound of their boot steps fade into the night, and Katniss pushes away and turnes a glare on me. I watch her as she examines me critically, the questioning frown turning into a hateful glare as she recognizes my face. "You're the Victor," she spits out at me, like I'm some sort of insect.

"I prefer Celia," I say, the ends of my lips twitching into a smile. Up close, she appears a bit more grubby, with dirt caked under her fingernails and smeared here and there on her face and arms. Her clothes are worn but well cared for—a look I'd grown accustomed to, coming from the Home where there isn't often money to buy or make new ones—and she twists her bag so it hangs behind her and out of my reach.

I let the silence draw on until her hostility recedes into sullen mistrust with a hint of curiosity. After a few more moments, she asks, "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be in bed or something? You have more Districts to visit in the morning. Don't you need your beauty rest?"

I grin at her snarky questions. "Oh, sure. I should. Shouldn't you?"

Katniss rolles her eyes. "That's different. I have to do business at night. You don't have to do _anything._ You won the Hunger Games. Everyone knows that Victors don't have to worry about food or money or anything."

I nod at her answer. I expect a lot of people are envious of Victors for just those reasons. "Oh yeah, it's great. I have all the food I need, all the money I could want, and a nice house waiting back in District Four with a comfy bed that I can sleep in whenever I want. Except," I add, cutting off her angry retort, "when I close my eyes, I see the faces of the Tributes I killed. The boy from the cornucopia, the Career I stabbed in the thigh, the three Tributes I blew up, Luka bleeding out on the ground, and Anthony's charred body being swept away by the water. I can't escape them."

Those aren't the only faces I see. It's a cruel irony that I can barely remember what Shikamaru's face looked like, or the sound of Naruto's laugh, or Ino's self-satisfied grin. But I still see them and so many more in my nightmares, splattered with blood, their eyes empty, cold, dead.

Katniss looks away, and I see my pain echoed in her own eyes. Thoughts of her father, no doubt, long dead in the mines. Maybe of her catatonic mother, or starving sister.

I let the silence go on for a little while before I say, "Where are you going, anyway? Home?"

She glances back at me, only a bit of distrust still in her eyes. "No, I have to go to the Hob. I need a few things."

"The Hob?" Of course I know what that is—the black market—but there's no way I should, is there?

"Yeah, you can buy and trade for things you need there. My dad, he used to go there all the time."

I can see her withdrawing a bit into herself. I cut off her thoughts before they can spiral too far. "That sounds interesting. Can I come?"

Katniss gives me a suspicious look, but ultimately shrugs her shoulders and turns back to the direction she was heading. We walk along—Katniss is noticeably more cautious than before—and we come up to an old warehouse, covered in coal dust, its windows so black you can't see through them. The doors are solid metal, rusted over, one propped open on an angle wide enough for just about anyone to slip in. Which we do.

The vast space inside has been converted into a marketplace of sorts—makeshift stalls in varying states of permanence, draped in scraps of wood or clothe. It's an informal setup, busy but not bustling. The people in the stalls give me looks of suspicion, some turning hostile when they recognize my face, but most turn to begrudging tolerance when they see that I'm with Katniss. Apparently, her willingness to act as escort is good enough for most of them.

The people manning the stalls are either too old to work the mines that are Twelve's primary industry, or crippled from workplace accidents, or the sort of people who seem made for back alley deals and illicit activities. I watch the last batch carefully, keeping a wary eye on them as they exchange calculating looks with one another. You run across those sorts of people no matter how well off a society is, and I doubt Twelve shows up on the positive end of that spectrum on its best days.

I follow along as Katniss moves from stall to stall, buying all sorts of things—herbs, clothe, medicine, bandages—and I can't help but be impressed with her haggling skills. When she's done, I catch her eyeing a stall where an old woman is stirring a pot of steaming stew, and make a point of dragging her over for a meal. "Come on, it's on me," I say, which is almost enough to make her refuse, but a rumble from her stomach pushes her to accept. "What's in it?" I ask the cook.

The old woman's eyes glare out at me from behind a mane of straggly, greasy hair. "Rabbit, mostly," she growls. I raise a skeptical eyebrow but order two bowls anyway. I peer down at the meat swimming in the broth and give the woman a look—this is definitely _not_ rabbit—but I don't say anything. It's actually pretty tasty, all things considered, and Katniss quickly finishes it off. I ask if she wants more, but she firmly shakes her head no. It probably hurt her pride to accept just the one bowl, so I don't push her.

I turn away from the stall and freeze—there's a Peacekeeper walking down the aisle between stalls, moving in our general direction. He's tall, more than a head taller than me, and his helmet is tucked under his arm, showing off a disheveled head of red hair. Katniss looks at him and shrugs her shoulders. "That's Darius. He's been here for a few years. He's not so bad."

"They just let him walk around like that? A Peacekeeper?" I ask with mild surprise.

She shrugs again. "He's alright. Doesn't annoy anyone. Pays for what he buys, doesn't ask for discounts or anything. He's not the only one, either. But he's nice." Katniss tries to be flippant, but there's a faint blush on her cheeks.

I can't help but smirk a tiny bit. "Nice, is he? Kinda cute, too." Her blush grows as she glares at me. I give her a cheeky grin and we walk away from the old lady with the stew, who gives me a wink and a small smile as we depart.

There are a number of places that sell baubles and homemade jewelry as a small aside to their primary wares—apparently there's more than coal in the mines down there, but the Capitol only wants the coal, so the miners take home gemstones of various sizes when they can find them. There are few tools that are available to anyone in Twelve that can shape or smooth out the small crystals without damaging them, so I see a lot of rough pieces set in molded metal. Still, they're pretty, in a rough, rustic fashion, and I buy one that glitters with specks of red and orange. I don't even haggle that much for it.

"Why d'you want that?" Katniss asks. She's eyeing the necklace in confusion. "I mean, you're a _Victor._ You can have pretty much any piece of jewelry you want. Why would you buy _that?_ "

I hold it up to one of the old halogens wired along the walls. The unfinished stone catches the light and reflects it back in sparkles. It's about three inches long, oblong, narrowing a bit before widening again on one end, and that's where someone wrapped a golden-brown piece of copper to thread the necklace through.

"I could, you're right. You've seen my dresses, haven't you?" Katniss shrugs again. I pause to think about it for a moment. "I could buy dozens of emeralds and rubies from the best suppliers in the Capitol. Heck, I could probably convince people to give them to me for free. But if it's a choice between wearing the best the Capitol has to offer, and wearing just about anything else—well, what would you choose?"

She thinks about it and says, "Definitely not the Capitol's."

I nod. "And there's something about one of these stones that's more… _real_ ,I think, thanone from the Capitol. Everyone there has them, so they're not special. They're just something you own, like a chair or something. Here, you can feel the hard work it took to force the very earth to part with this small piece of itself." I glance at Katniss, who's following along with a curious furrow in her brow. "I don't have to tell _you_ about how dark and oppressive being underground can be. You've probably taken trips down with your school, if Twelve is anything like Four. But I think it's important, maybe, to remember that however harsh and brutal it is in the mines, there's still beauty to be found, in spite of how bleak it can seem." I look away from Katniss, tucking the gem into my pocket, and giving her time to compose herself; her father did die in the mines not so long ago. Perhaps I've said too much.

I look over the other pieces in the small display, and pick out a dark blue-green gem tied up in a hemp-rope lanyard. I hold it out to Katniss. "Here. Take it, it's yours." I put money on the counter, not even bothering to count it. I'm sure it's too much.

There's a guarded look on her face as she looks at the necklace dangling from my hand. Her voice is thicker than normal and I can see her trying to hold back whatever emotions she's feeling. Anger? Sadness? It doesn't matter. "Why are you giving that to me?"

I smile. "Because it's important to remember that no matter how bad things are, there's always something worth fighting for. Something to protect. Don't you agree?"

She doesn't move for a moment, then reaches out and grabs the necklace. I watch her face as she stares at the stone, then drapes it over her head and tucks it under her shirt. "Thanks," she mumbles and looks away.

I nod. "Don't mention it."


	16. Chapter 15

I LIVE! After a rather severe case of writer's block and a rather more severe bought of being pissed off, I managed to pull together this chapter. Also, I managed to plan out a rough draft of the next little while. I don't know if this comes as a surprise-it really shouldn't-but I'm planning to skip a few years with only limited coverage of that time frame to cover what's important. I'm not writing out three or four years of story, I'm just not, and you should feel silly if you expected it.

That being said, I like to think that what I have planned will be suitably interesting, infuriating, and (dare I say) heartbreaking. So, on with the show!

* * *

I make it back to the Mayor's house without anyone noticing—although, in the morning, Finnick does give me a long look that says he knows I was out of bed. I avoid meeting his eyes and instead lose myself in the yammering of the Triplets, as they, in turns, wax poetic about the parties and styles in the Capitol and bicker with each other over trivial things. It's calming, in a way, to pay attention to something you know doesn't matter and push away the darker thoughts occupying your mind.

Later, on the train after our departure, Finnick corners me in the rear car. "I know you were gone last night," he accuses.

I give him my widest bambi-eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about. I slept like a log last night."

He answers with a level stare and says, "Twelve isn't like the rest of the Districts. If you're caught where you shouldn't be, there will be repercussions. Not on you, of course, being a Victor. But there are others who would suffer it. You understand?"

Annie. Reva. The Triplets, who I've grown fond of, for some reason. A useful reminder, even if I didn't really need it. "I understand. I'll be good." I sit up, overly proper, folding my hands in my lap and appearing the very model of a lady of the highest breeding.

Finnick snorts and shakes his head, but I see the smile he tries to hide as he turns to leave the car.

District Eleven is different from the centralized arrangement of Twelve. There are small hamlets spread out every few miles, and the 'houses'—more like shacks, really—make the rundown, bedraggled Seam homes look like palaces by comparison. People are hard at work in the fields and orchards, overseen by armed Peacekeepers. It takes over an hour after entering the district before we reach our station, passing fields and towns and people working the entire time, and that's traveling several hundreds of miles per hour.

It's hard to remember, for how centralized populations are in most of the Districts, that Panem spans almost the entire North American continent—from the eastern edges of Appalachia, to the western rim of the Rockies. It pushes south into what was Mexico, and goes well north into Canada. An area that must have once supported almost half a billion people now has a population that probably doesn't break five million.

Eleven is one of the only Districts where the population is spread out. It has to be, if the people are going to be able to farm an area spanning from the Carolinas to the Mississippi River.

For the first time, I wonder if the propaganda they teach us about the rest of the world is true. It's been hundreds of years since ships sailed the oceans as part of a global economy, since we had access to satellite networks and the internet, but I find it hard to believe that only those living in North America survived whatever global cataclysm ravaged the world all those years ago.

Thinking about other people who may or may not still be alive halfway around the world doesn't actually help me at the moment, but it's absolutely fascinating—what happened to all the cities of North America? The coastal ones are no doubt lost beneath the oceans, and the Capitol is situated over what was once Denver, if I read the maps correctly, but there were dozens of cities whose ruins might still be standing. Maybe there are survivors, scavenging a living out away from the oversight of the Capitol?

Something to keep in mind, maybe. This _was_ once the world I was born to, technically.

* * *

The crowd in Eleven was about the same size as the one in Twelve, and looked as worn down and tired. I gave a similar speech to the one I gave in Twelve. I also thanked Titus's family, though my words rang hollow in my ears as I watched his younger brothers cry. I met his father's eyes, and could barely maintain contact with the pain and despair in them.

Ten, Nine and Eight weren't that much better. I'd been responsible for most of these Tributes' deaths. But I was able to withstand their families' glares and tears better than I was the ones in Seven. It was particularly rough, because of Luka, who saved my life and died as I held his hand. He had three brothers and a sister, a girl who couldn't have been more than three or four and didn't seem old enough to understand what was going on. I didn't see their parents anywhere, so I had to assume they didn't have any. The eldest seemed of age, and probably worked hard to feed his siblings.

I gave my prepared speech, and at the end, I had to add my thanks to Luka. "Luka saved my life, when he didn't have to. Maybe he could have survived and won, if he hadn't. But he was a good person, and I'll always remember him for that. Thank you, for Luka."

There wasn't any reaction to my words from most of the crowd. A couple of his brothers' glares dimmed a bit, and the oldest gave me a small nod in…not in thanks, but recognition, I guess.

The rest of the Districts passed by in a blur of ceremonies and speeches and dinners. I drifted through them, taking note of the temperament of the audiences. They were mostly exhausted, but I could sense an undercurrent of simmering resentment; nothing close enough to the surface to be immediately evident, but there all the same.

A lesson that President Snow and his ilk never learned—at some point, when living is unbearable, the threat of death loses its power. The ultimate catch-22 of his regime is that, in order to maintain his stranglehold over the Districts, he must resort to ever more harsh and vicious tactics to quell turmoil. But those tactics only drive more and more people to resist, so he has to step up his responses—and the people of the Districts start fighting back. The whole system is, by design, doomed to failure. The only question is how many lie dead at the end of this.

Districts Two and One are almost surreal in comparison to the others. The crowds cheering, and even the families of the fallen are congratulatory and applauding. I do my best to smile and wave while trying to avoid meeting the eyes of the families. What would I see there? Hatred? Happiness? Grief? All of the above? I'd rather not think about it. I'm not sure what would be worse.

And then, we're back in Four. A grand event, filled with celebrations throughout the town, decorations and smiling faces and more food than any of us has seen since Finnick won the games. We've never hinged on the border of starvation like many of the outer districts, but the variety—candies and cakes straight out of the upscale shops in the Capitol, meats and cheeses and vegetables we've only ever read about. The sense of wonder on children's faces that had only ever shown wariness or cynicism is astonishing to see.

I'm proud, yet ashamed, and it only hardens my resolve to do whatever it takes to end this insane regime.

Within the next few weeks, things return to a semblance of normalcy. Whatever leave the fisherman and factory workers had to celebrate is done, and everyone goes back to doing what they were doing before. Even Annie keeps up her old schedule.

"I can't just stop helping out, you know? People depend on me. Sure, they could find someone else to do it, but why should they? I don't have anything else to do." And she smiled at me and left our new home.

Ours, of course, because I wasn't about to let her stay in the Home anymore. There were a few objections made from the Peacekeepers, but Finnick stepped up and brought the District Commander around.

"Edna bet heavily on me in my Games, so she's thankful. Something like this, she'll look the other way, and you won't have to worry about it."

"Thanks, Finnick," is all I can say.

Finnick gives me a lazy half-smirk, an ostentatious bow, and an overly-seductive "Anything for a lady," that makes me laugh.

I'm touched that he just talked to her without my even considering asking him. He tries to hide it, but it doesn't take a trained ninja to uncover how much he despises the Peacekeepers. When he tastes coconut, for example, his upper lip curls just a bit, and his brow develops a tiny furrow. But when he sees a Peacekeeper, he goes blank, emotionless, his face more like a Halloween mask than anything human. A part of him freezes ice cold until he seems more like a pantomime of a person than the real thing.

A reminder, then, that everyone who left the arena didn't come back whole. We left something essential, something _important_ , behind. And we may never get it back.

One more interesting thing that's new to my life as a Victor is, of course, the Peacekeepers. Before I was Reaped, I'd occasionally come across a few Peacekeepers patrolling the docks or the market, but mostly they keep to those areas. They don't bother with the majority of the town, especially where the poor and hungry live—I suspect it's as much a matter of apathy as it is safety.

Now, though, I can barely turn a corner without seeing one. My senses tell me that they're following me, so I take a hint and, one day, I manage to slip down a side alley, climb a wall, and escape to an old tenement Annie and I visit once a week. Mrs. Carona is as elderly as people tend to get around here, early sixties if I had to guess, and about as mobile as a woman fifteen years older. She manages alright, and plenty of her children are around to provide her with enough to get by. But sometimes, she needs the nimble fingers and general flexibility of the youth, so we're sure to stop by regularly to help.

Also, she makes delicious sugar cookies.

I was distinctly unsurprised when squads of Peacekeepers started patrolling, clearly visible out Mrs. Carona's window. It was enough to confirm my suspicions. The Peacekeepers are around to keep track of me. Probably the other Victors, too.

An annoying complication. It makes it hard to plot much without the assurance of being able to come and go as I pleased. The answer to this conundrum remains elusive for quite some time before Finnick once again comes to my rescue.

It's a cool day—mid-60s, which is cool for southern District Four—when Finnick asks me something that sets my mind awhirl.

"So, now that you're out of the Games, what are you going to do?"

"Huh?" I give him a look of confusion as he playfully tries to swipe a few cookies from the sheet Annie's pulled out of our oven. She swats at him with her spatula and he shakes his hand in mock agony, making the both of us laugh.

"You know, your hobby. Everyone has one. I, for example, primp and preen and go out to all the most fabulous parties the Capitol has to offer!" He strikes as gallant a pose as he can with his face half-covered in crumbs. "So, what are you planning to do as your escape from it all?"

Escape? I snort. The very idea of escaping is absurd. Peacekeepers surrounding me, my own home likely bugged, everyone reporting my every waking moment, every step, every inhale and exhale. The only way to get free from that…wait.

Wait.

"I think I have a few ideas," I eventually respond. "Finnick, you think you can…teach me how to sail?"

Where's the only place the people of District Four can get out to without being watched? The only place that a semblance of freedom can still exist for anyone? My mind is racing furiously, even as my stomach begins churning at the very thought of all those waves.

Ah well, we all have to make sacrifices.


	17. Chapter 16

What...WHAT'S THIS?! THE STORY LIVES?! INCONCEIVABLE!

Nah, I decided to throw this up and see how it looks. I'm pretty ok with it.

And I HATE leaving stories without endings. So I'm going to try and do some more work with this story, and maybe it'll work out. But I changed jobs 4 months ago, and this new one isn't as conducive to writing as my last one. So, I'll do the best I can. No promises.

* * *

An explosion shatters rock and mortar. Cracks spider web up the stone edifice, and a giant rumble echoes in the chasm. Water bursts through, sweeping over the dry riverbed, a cascade of violence wiping away everything in its path. Anthony's broken body is quickly lost in the commotion.

The camera pans out from the view of the dam, then switches to following the rushing water down the canyon. Debris crashes into trees and rocks, the force of the water destroying anything that stands against it. Finally, the river bursts out into open space, the lazy waterfall turned into a mini-Niagara Falls.

Finally, the focus is swept back to me, sitting calmly on the top of the cliff, several feet above the relative calm of the water, with the setting sun in the background. I watch as wisps of auburn hair dance in the wind, and then the feed changes to the image of me, seated next to Caesar Flickerman in the gorgeous gown Reva designed for me. The audience's applause fades away, and Caesar turns to me—

I jump as my bedroom door slams open, and my auburn-haired roommate storms in. "What are you still doing in bed? The Reaping is in an hour, you have to be on that stage, and I'll be damned if I have to explain to the Peacekeepers why the newest Victor isn't there for the ceremony!"

I blink, my doe-eyes full of innocence.

Annie rolls her eyes and yanks off my blankets. "Up! You're lucky Reva's in the Capitol, or else you'd be in _real_ trouble."

I groan. I look back at the projection TV, at the fake smile and empty eyes on my face. How appropriate. "I don't really care, they won't be looking at me."

"Of course they will be, and even if they aren't, a certain someone _else_ will be," she says.

Her face is buried in my closet, which is great, because she can't see the blush on my face. "I won't dignify that with a reply, thank you very much."

"You really don't have to. Put these on." She pulls out a light blue blouse and white shorts and tosses them on my bed. I watch, bemused, as Annie's eyes cut across my vast collection of clothes I'd probably never wear if she didn't practically force me into them. She reaches in and grabs a pale yellow sundress.

Annie spins around and holds the dress up against her. "What do you think? Too light?"

"Beautiful, actually. Take it, I don't like dresses," I reply, slipping out of bed and obediently putting on the clothes she chose for me. Annie watches the projection as I step into the bathroom and, closing the door, take off my nightclothes.

"It would probably be good if you could work on hiding your murderous intentions better, Celia," Annie yells at me through the door.

"What do you mean? The interview?" I finish buttoning my blouse and open the door. Annie's perched on the edge of my bed, a thoughtful look on her face as she watches the byplay between Caesar and me.

She nods, giving my clothes a quick look. "You get this look in your eyes, like you're thinking of how to make it look like an accident. A little circumspection would probably do you some good."

"You've been raiding my library again, haven't you?"

"Of course."

"The audience didn't seem to notice."

I sit next to her on the bed, and she reaches over and grabs my hairbrush and starts working on the knots and tangles in my hair. "They weren't they only ones watching."

"Hmm." I can't help but relax while Annie does my hair. The feel of the brush through my auburn tresses is soothing. I doze as she arranges it in neat rows of braids along my scalp until it hangs down my neck to my shoulders. I'd been resisting letting it grow out, although Annie assures me it would look great.

A few minutes later, she's pushing me up and out the door. "Go, go. I'll be along in a few minutes. Say high to Finnick for me!" She sends me off with a cheeky grin.

I stick my tongue out as I walk down the stairs from my house. It's nice, two stories tall, nestled in the shade of the cliff with the nineteen other houses that make up the Victor's Village. Its color scheme was light blue and yellow, to my specifications, and the small lawn surrounding it had patches of flowers scattered all around. I still didn't have much talent for ikebana, but they bloomed almost year-round, and traces of their scent often wafted through my house.

The houses are on a rise that lets them overlook the town as a whole, from the warehouses to the docks to the tenement buildings to the market. I could see just about anywhere from my front steps—although I suspect the intent is to remind everyone else just how separate the Victors are from the rest of them.

I still have twenty minutes before the start of the Reaping, which gives me plenty of time to stop by the market for a quick breakfast. Though my stomach still churns a bit in anticipation, I don't let it stop me from eating a few pieces of pastry I buy from the old man selling them from his stall. The people of the market are always happy to see me—Victors, of course, being the most likely to spend money—and I try to oblige them by spreading my newfound wealth as much as possible.

I turn to the square, where people have been filing in to stand for a while now. Everyone twelve to eighteen is gathered according to age in the partitioned area in the middle, with all the spectators—their parents and not-of-age siblings, and everyone else—surrounding them, looking on, even making bets in a few instances. I give these people a look of disgust, and do my best to ignore them.

The dais in front of the Justice Building is starting to fill up with Victors. I've gotten to know a couple of them in the past year, but for the most part I've stuck with Finnick and Mags. The others are mostly proud of their victories in the Games, and of the acclaim that goes with it. I don't have much in common with these people, the ones who get together during Hunger Games to celebrate and recap their wins and enjoy their successes. Frankly, it's not something I have much stomach for, so I stick to Finnick and Mags.

I hand off my last bit of pastry to a small child clinging to his mother's skirt and mount the stage, taking a seat at the end of the isle next to Mags. She smiles at me and pats my leg, then turns to watch Simon Hellepholant plod his way across the stage in his usual gaudy attire. This time, it's a bright pink coat with a pale violet undershirt and shorts matching the color of his dyed mustache. "He's gone all out this year, hasn't he?" I murmur to Mags, who gives me a fake-stern glare as Simon taps the microphone.

"Hello, hello! And welcome to the Reaping of the Seventy First Hunger Games! I'd like to extend my warmest of welcomes to all of you here, but especially to our newest Victor, Celia Sawyer!" gestures to me, and the crowd cheers. I smile and wave back to everyone, and there are even a few catcalls mixed in. I see Annie, almost exactly in the middle of all the potential Tributes, wearing the sundress she'd taken from my closet less than an hour ago.

The applause dies down as Simon holds his hands up. "Now, time for the Reaping!" He reaches into the boys' bowl and pulls out a tiny slip of paper. He takes his time opening it up and reading the name as everyone holds their breath in anticipation.

"Gregory Slader!"

A wave of relief sweeps through the crowd as dozens of boys are spared for another year. Gregory, understandably, is less than relieved—indeed, he's tense and sweating. Friends of his are consoling him, to little avail, as the Peacekeepers reach him and move to escort him to the stage. He moves forward, jerkily, his eyes wild. When he finally makes it to the dais, something inside of him gives and he slumps forward. No one is volunteering.

I feel for him.

Simon's already reaching into the girls' bowl, digging around for a bit before pulling out a name. He reads the name written inside and says, "Beatrice Fletcher!"

A heavy sob comes from a few deep in the crowd. A girl with wavy dark brown hair has her hands clutched over her face, her eyes wide in terror. She can't be more than fourteen years old. She takes a step forward as people make a path for her, but before she can take a second, a voice calls out from near the back.

"I volunteer as Tribute!"

People in the crowd turn to look at the volunteer. Space opens up around her as she strides, confidently, towards the front. I absently watch as Beatrice practically collapses into the arms of her friends, a look of disbelief and wonder on her face as she's spared a fight to the death.

The volunteer mounts the stage and stands on the opposite side of Simon from Gregory, an anticipatory grin spreading across her face. "And you would be?"

"Lyda Nybar," she responds. There's some applause from a few people towards where she was standing. The girl waves at her friends and family; I take the opportunity to look over my new trainee. She's tall, taller than me, with short light brown hair and blue eyes. She's not the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, but there's an aura of confidence around her that has a lot of the boys in the crowd cheering. Greg's glowering at her pretty heavily, though—probably jealous that no one volunteered for him.

Can't say I blame him.

"Excellent!" Simon exclaims. He grabs each Tribute by the hand and raises them up high. "Ladies and gentlemen of District Four, I give you—your Tributes!"

* * *

Gregory is the strong, silent type—well, silent at least. He isn't small or scrawny, but there is a distinct lack of muscle on his lanky frame. A few inches short of six feet, he looks like someone had taken a child and stretched him out. He's clumsy, awkward, and I doubt that the few days of training available to the Tributes will do much to help him get over that.

And I do not envy Finnick the job, either.

Lyda, on the other hand, is confident almost to the point of excess. She ignores Gregory, and answers questions with bland non-answers that do nothing to advance any attempt at conversation any of us make. The end result is that Finnick and I are forced to talk to Simon. Simon, of course, is as boisterous and bombastic as always, which is its own special form of torture.

Any hopes I have that Lyda's standoffish attitude would dissipate once we were alone together are pretty immediately crushed. I'm honestly a little offended; my victory in the last Games showed pretty thoroughly that I have a solid grasp of weapons handling, strategic thinking, and improvisation, and yet Lyda more or less ignores my attempts to spark a discussion over her skills. Is she afraid I'd leak information on her to other Tributes? Is she arrogant enough to think that I can't help her cause?

Fortunately, the train ride ends fairly quickly, and we're all escorted past screaming fans, most of whom are cheering for me, although a large contingent of girls and women squeal when Finnick graces them with his trademark grin.

Our transport moves us to the arena, where we're met by Reva and the Triplets (with their skin colored in dark blue, green, and violet, a clear attempt to maintain District Four's aquatic theme). Reva and I share a quick look once she takes charge of my Tribute that communicates to her how I feel. The single elegantly raised eyebrow tells me that she got my message, although you wouldn't be able to tell from how she takes charge of Lyda. The Triplets twitter back and forth, sparing an enthusiastic greeting for me that I have no time to appreciate before they whisk my Tribute away into the annals of the arena.

Once our Tributes are gone, Finnick and I take what seems to be the first chance since we've left Four to just _breathe_. The tension in my shoulders that I didn't notice building up starts to ease.

"I don't know which of us has the harder job," Finnick mutters to me.

"Oh, it's definitely you," I respond. " _My_ Tribute clearly doesn't need my help."

He rolls his eyes. "She's not the first Tribute to have that attitude. My first year as a Mentor, I had a boy two years older than me. He thought I was just a pretty boy who got lucky, so he didn't listen to a word I said." He snorts in disgust. "He didn't make it out of the Cornucopia. Stabbed in the back by someone he'd thought was an ally."

I nod along to his story. Finnick sounds disgusted, but I can tell there is some real emotion behind the story; sadness, frustration, and anger.

We stood there for a moment, when I break the silence. "He was wrong, you know."

Finnick glances my way, broken out of whatever memories he was reliving. "Oh?"

I nod solemnly. "Oh, yeah. You're not THAT pretty."

He snirks and ruffles my hair. "Come on. Let's introduce you to the other mentors."


End file.
